


Drawing Down The Moon

by scoradh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-16 00:34:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1325137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoradh/pseuds/scoradh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After breaking up with Blaise, a drunken Draco begs Harry Potter for help in winning him back. In a fit of misguided philanthropy (plus one or two ulterior motives) Harry agrees. In the midst of the ensuing chaos, at least one person falls in love.</p><p>Written in November 2006.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drawing Down The Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: kabeyk (livejournal)

_One should not pursue goals that are easily achieved. One must develop an instinct for what one can just barely achieve through one's greatest efforts._

 ALBERT EINSTEIN

 

 

The night was drawing in, and the Weasley household was preparing for bed.

Screams reverberated around the house. Some words were discernable through the living room wall, where Ron and Hermione sat close to the fire. She was knitting; he was pretending to read the paper. As the sound of dulcet tones shrieking "I'm going to rip your brain out by your hair!" came through the wall with particular clarity, Ron folded his paper, and started creaking his joints as if he would get up.

"Don't bother," said Hermione gently. "I'm sure Sally has them in hand."

"That's what I'm worried about," grumbled Ron. All the same, he settled back into his orthopaedic armchair, which gave a sigh of contentment and started vibrating a little.

Hermione giggled. "Once upon a time, Harry would have said something terribly rude about that chair and what it did for our sex life."

Ron sent her a smouldering look. "Once upon a time? Come to bed tonight, woman, and I'll show you what rude _really_ means --"

An embarrassed cough interrupted their banter. Ron had grown out of the blushing habit a few decades before, so he just smiled benignly at his daughter as she edged around the doorframe.

"Um, Dad, the kids want to come in and say goodnight." She made a 'grown-ups-stick-together' face that Ron always found terribly amusing, especially when he remembered changing her nappy.

"We wanna _story_!" corrected an imperious voice from somewhere behind Sally.

"Yeah!" came the Greek chorus that always accompanied any of Tai's pronouncements. "Story! Story!"

"Reminds me of Quidditch." The way Hermione bent her head over her clacking needles didn't disguise her smile. "Don't you remember?"

"How could I forget?" Ron winced. "I think Malfoy's lyrics of 'Weasley is our King' are indelibly engraved in my mind."

"I was surprised at how right he got it, though." Time had not cured Hermione's blush, because it was far more insidious a disease than Ron's. "You're _my_ King."

With a slow unfolding, Ron pressed his hand to hers. He could hear Sally trying to shush the children, and was abjectly grateful for being too old to care that he looked soppy.

Tai was as irrepressible as a whirlwind, however, and within a very few seconds he had wriggled past Sally's incomplete defence and was marching right up to Ron. He rested his small arm on Ron's knee in a familiar manner and looked into Ron's face, his thick-lashed eyes unblinking.

"Story." His voice was firm, and he was as brief as ever. He didn't need to be otherwise; his cohorts took up the cry with varying degrees of noise and persuasive skills.

"It's all right, Sally." Ron waved his daughter away. "I took care of you and Frank when you were going through the terrible twos, I think I can manage this bunch. Go -- have a coffee, or something."

"Do you want anything?" Sally remembered to ask, half-way through her grateful escape.

"Boil up some milk. We'll all have cocoa." Hermione smiled around. Sally didn't look thrilled by the idea -- Ron himself wasn't sure that giving the children added theobromine would do anything for calming them down for sleep on Christmas Eve -- but she obeyed. People tended to, in the end.

"Right, well, what kind of story would you like?" asked Ron. The smallest grandchild, who was only three, crawled into the space between Ron's legs and started nuzzling them. He'd be asleep in seconds.

"A good one," said Tai. He smoothed his blonde hair back from his brow and fixed Ron with a gimlet glare that sent a shiver of recognition through Ron. "I want ?"

"Dragons!" cried one child, and "Magic swords!" another. Soon the air was filled with suggestions, each more ludicrous than the last. Thankfully, due to his association with one Harry Potter, Ron had plenty of access to fodder for stories, and then some. However, he waited until everyone had calmed down and Tai was ready to speak again.

"I want a true story." Tai's words were carefully measured, as if he were being charged individually for each one. "I want you to tell me one about ? Uncle Harry."

Ron stifled a smile. When Louisa was born, Harry had been the third person to hold her. He'd looked both ridiculous and uncomfortable, but she hadn't cried much more than she had with Ron or Hermione. Harry had joked, "I can be her pretend uncle, can't I? Not that she hasn't got plenty to go around ?" They'd all seen what he was really asking, though; he was Uncle Harry from that day on. And the tradition had survived through generations.

"I have plenty about Uncle Harry." Ron shared a significant smile with Hermione. "Any one in particular you fancy?"

"Dragons!" piped up one stubborn child. He turned out to be one of Ginny's son's, which didn't surprise Ron in the least. Tai made a shushing motion at him and he subsided, although not without displaying quite a lot of furry tongue for inspection.

"Romance," whispered another little girl. Her burnished auburn hair was almost straight, and she wore her grandfather's fang on a chain about her neck. She clutched a doll so tight that it was in danger of decapitation, but Ron stroked her hair and nodded. He'd always had a soft spot for Elaine, because she reminded him so much of Bill.

"Romance it is, then," he agreed, before he quite realised what he'd said. What could he possibly talk about? Perhaps, if he jigged the Triwizard Tournament so that Harry saved Cho from the Horntail, it would fit the bill. None of these children would know the difference; it had been well over half a century ago, after all.

Tai made a doubtful mouth. "Romance is okay, but it has to be _true_. I don't want any silly Romeo and Juliet stuff."

"And what would you know about Romeo and Juliet, young man?" Hermione's lips twitched.

"Enough to know that it's awful," declared Tai. He sank to a cross-legged position on the floor; as if operated by invisible strings, all the other children sprawled on the hearth-rug. "Right, then. Begin." He waved his hand. One day he'd be able to _Wingardium Leviosa_ with the best of them, but for the moment he was only nine years old.

Severe censoring would be in order.

"Once upon a time," said Ron, because it was expected. He heard Hermione's quiet snort; it was a spectacularly inappropriate beginning, given the story that he was going to recite and that she knew he was going to recite. It was no fairytale, that was for certain; it wasn't even that life-changing a saga. It had just felt like it at the time.

"Once upon a time," he repeated, surer now, "there was a young man called Draco Malfoy, who was always late ?"

* * *

Draco sauntered into the bar, tugging utterly unnecessary sunglasses out of his wind-tangled hair. He paused to throw his reflection a glance in the smoky mirror behind the bar, and frowned at what he saw. Nothing would do but to smooth out the snarls in his hair before he took another step, and this he did with a concentration that would have put a meditating monk to shame.

Satisfied that his coiffure was as neat as it would get without a liberal application of Mrs Skower's Tame-All Gel and a thorough brushing, Draco proceeded into the depths of the bar. It had certainly changed since his schooldays, and for that the new proprietorship was to be thanked (or blamed, as appropriate). Gone were the soot-stained beams and tatty cushions; now the place was airy and the trappings were predominantly blue. Exciting and inventive things had been done with chrome, although as far as Draco could see you _couldn't_ actually do anything dull and mundane with chrome. He had to admit that the swirls of blue in the metal were a nice touch, though you'd never hear him admit it out loud.

"Here, again?" he sighed as he slid into a booth. The blue velvet caressed the palms of his hands and he repressed an involuntary shudder of delight, looking instead into the blazing eyes of his companion.

"You. Are. _Late,_ " Blaise ground out. " _Again._ You _promised._ "

Draco winced. When Blaise spoke in italics, it was a sure sign that Draco was in for a excruciating tongue-lashing. Blaise had such a skilled tongue that it was a pity to waste it so; but he could be fiery when roused. And boy, was he roused now. Blaise could fume better than a faulty chimney at the mildest provocation, but today steam was almost spurting out of his ears.

"Why, is that the time?" Draco made a show of tossing back the sleeves of his robes -- Blaise had a weakness for wrists -- and checking his silver wristwatch. "I never realised! I was sure it was only four o'clock --"

"Draco. Shut up now." Blaise leaned back, drumming out a heavy-metal solo on the tabletop. "I have been waiting here for an _hour_. People have been looking at me in a pitying manner. _Potter_ has been looking at me in a pitying manner. Have you got any idea how _reprehensible_ that is?"

"Potter?" Draco glanced over at the bar. Sure enough, he could spot a flash of zany hair; it appeared that Potter was stocktaking again. Whatever stocktaking was -- Draco didn't like to dirty himself with knowing the intricacies of manual labour -- it seemed to entail a good deal of time and effort. "Well, Blaise, you only have yourself to blame there. You chose this bar --"

"Only because if I picked somewhere else, you'd pretend you got lost as an excuse to stand me up!" Blaise raked his fingers through his cropped curls. "At least there's no way you can claim you forgot where the Leaky Cauldron was. Although these days, I wouldn't put it past you --"

"It's called the Hippogriff's Head now," Draco reminded him. He found it easy to remember, bringing to life as it did all his memories of being savaged by one of the bloody creatures.

"Draco! Focus, please!" Blaise leaned forward, his eyes tiny bores into Draco's soul. Draco squirmed; he hated realising what a dick he really was. It tended not to fit with his mental image of himself. "I think we really need to have a talk about all of -- _this_."

"Off you go then." Draco signalled a barman with an imperious gesture. "Talk."

Instead, Blaise leaned back, knuckling his eyes. This was so unlike his normal verbose self that Draco began to feel the inklings of unease. When the barman asked Draco what he'd like to drink, he snapped, "Margarita," without even thinking. It was only when the barman added, "Anything for you, Blaise?" that Draco realised that the barman was Potter.

"No, thanks," mumbled Blaise. His hands were still over his eyes. Draco, eyeing Potter with distaste, saw him raise one eyebrow in surprise. However, he tucked his notepad into his robe pocket and prepared to leave with nary a comment.

"Make it sharpish," Draco called after him. He relished the whiplash of annoyance that twisted Potter's features, even as he tried to drown it under a façade of professional indifference.

"He never calls you Draco," observed Blaise. His randomness was hardly unusual; Blaise could summon up a conversational tangent about any topic under the sun. Draco was relived to hear him sound more like himself.

"Why should he?" Draco started to undo the clasps of his travelling cloak. "He's just the man pouring the drinks, after all."

"That's almost polite, for you." Blaise quirked his lips in a way that made Draco want to kiss him. He stretched his hand across the table, intending to take one of Blaise's as a prelude to such a course of action, but Blaise snatched his hand away. "Don't you remember the things you used to say about him?"

"Oh, vaguely." Draco was annoyed. He hadn't come all this way to trade anecdotes about Potter. "I didn't like him very much, but I gave up wasting that much energy on him a long time ago."

"Ahem." A third voice broke into the conversation; it managed to sound annoyed even through the inadequate medium of throat-clearing. "Your drink, _sir_."

Draco rolled his eyes. Blaise was staring at him with an intense expression and Potter was hovering in the most inauthentic servile manner Draco had yet seen.

"Are you going to stand there all day holding the damn thing, or will you give it to me?" Draco arched his neck up at Potter, sending a snide smile in his direction.

Potter whipped a sculpted blue bar mat out of nowhere and used two fingers to slide it across the table to Draco, using so much force that his fingers nearly left tracks in the wood. Then he twirled the glass from one hand to the other without spilling a drop, and sent it spinning to a halt in front of him.

" _Enjoy_ ," said Potter, in the same tones as another would say, "Eat shit and die, you scum-sucking bastard." He turned on his heel and strode back to the bar.

"How many people work here, that you've seen?" Blaise's face bore a curious expression, a mixture of deliberation and distraction that would have been oxymoronic on anyone but him.

"Good lord, Blaise." Draco raised his glass to his lips, wondering if Potter had poisoned him. It probably wouldn't even be bad for business if someone died on his premises, if said person was the son of a convicted Death Eater. "I hardly keep track of such things. Are you planning to buy shares or something?"

"Never," said Blaise fiercely. Draco stared at him, but Blaise was still looking away. "I see ? three from where I'm sitting. And the place is hardly full."

"It's a Tuesday evening," Draco pointed out. "We're too early for the dinner trade. What did you expect? A trail of people looking for Potter's autograph?"

"No ? I just thought it was funny that Potter took your order, and served your drink." Blaise tugged at his full lower lip. Draco put down his glass, suddenly not remotely thirsty any longer. "Anyway. What was I saying?"

"I have no idea." Draco spoke quickly, hoping to permanently divert Blaise's attention away from the borderline serious matters he'd been heading towards. Blaise, however, wasn't fooled. He narrowed his eyes. Draco wanted nothing so much as to strip him right there, and make him moan until he forgot that Draco was an inconstant bastard who had all the emotional depth of a pencil.

"What do you really want out of life, Draco?" Blaise asked. "As far as I can see, it doesn't involve anything _normal._ Like a proper relationship, or sharing a home, or love, or -- or -- trust, or _anything._ " The last word was a spit of pure frustration.

Draco was stunned. More to the point, he was unprepared. He had no soothing words to make Blaise forget this one, no half-lie that he could use to fob Blaise off for another few weeks or months.

"I don't know," he said, after a long pause. In the meantime, the lights in Blaise's face shut off, one by one.

"That's what I was afraid you'd say." Blaise fumbled in his pocket and slapped a few Galleons on the table. Draco frowned, confused and a little afraid.

"What are they for?" he asked, because Blaise seemed to expect it.

"Get drunk on me," said Blaise. "It's the only thing you seem to do with any real enthusiasm."

Draco fingered a coin. Under his fingers, the edges seemed sharp enough to cut flesh. "You're -- breaking up with me?" he whispered.

Blaise made a noise that was half-snort, half-strangled-moan. "How could I? There's nothing to break."

He Apparated too silently and swiftly for Draco to do either of the things he wanted to do to him. He settled for drinking his margarita instead of tipping it over Blaise's stupid head, and willed away the slow-burn lust that had been accumulating in his stomach ever since he arrived.

"Damn him," muttered Draco. He was surprised to feel the sting of tears against his eyes. He squeezed them shut, and then they had never been.

He decided to do something he'd never done before, and did what Blaise wanted. He got drunk.

* * *

Ron paused for breath. Tai's face was bland.

"This isn't wery excitin',' objected Ginny's scion. "I mean, what's all fis got to do wiv Uncle Harry? Why ain't he drinkin' his drinks?"

"Shut up, Gerold." Ron blinked; Tai seemed almost -- enraptured. "This _is_ a true story. True stories aren't always perfect, are they?"

"Always? I think you'll find they never are, dear." Hermione's needles had long since stilled. Ron could tell that she, too, was reliving those heady days just after Voldemort's fall and Harry's recovery. Probably there hadn't been as much sunshine then as Ron remembered there being; but they had been good times, there was no denying that.

"I never knew Uncle Harry used to own the Hippogriff's Head!" added Tai. "That pub's a legend! They once had the Weird Sisters playing there!"

"Your twenty-first birthday, wasn't it, Ron?" Ron and Hermione shared a very secret smile, which only Harry could have understood. If Sally had been there, she might have been able to count backwards from when her oldest sister Louisa had been born -- but she wasn't, so she didn't.

"I didn't know you were a fan of the Weird Sisters, Tai," said Ron. "Aren't they a bit old for you? I mean, they were in their prime when _I_ was your age!"

Tai sent him a stern look, which was so reminiscent of McGonagall that Ron almost expected to be told that he would serve detention with Filch tomorrow night. Sometimes it was hard to come to terms with the fact that most of the people he knew best were dead.

"Real music never dies. It just keeps on playing," said Tai.

"True," said Hermione. "But I think some of your audience is getting jittery, my dear." She inclined her head towards Gerold, who looked exactly like he was harbouring nefarious designs on the figurines gracing a side table. "Perhaps you'd better continue."

"All right." Ron cleared his throat. "Well, Draco proceeded to drink far more than he should have -- and if I ever catch any of you doing that I'll wring your bloody throats --"

"Ron!"

"Sorry, dear," said Ron meekly. "Anyway, it got to closing time and Harry had to lock the pub ?"

* * *

"We've got a lingerer." Amy made a face and jerked her thumb over her shoulder.

Harry looked in the direction she'd indicated, and felt his chest give the usual lurch. He'd long since given over berating himself about that glitch in his otherwise impeccable good sense. Besides, the fizzling feeling was quite enjoyable, if you blanked out its source.

"Do you want me to chuck him out?" Amy looked eager. Harry looked at her skinny girl-arms and repressed a smile. It would be an Gargantuan effort for her to chuck out a bag of garbage, not to mind a full grown man who probably weighed about seventy kilos. Same as Harry.

"It's okay. I can manage." He gave her a friendly pat on the back.

"If you're sure," she said. She tugged at the hem of her Muggle t-shirt in such a way that it would have exposed bosom, had there been any to expose, and blushed.

Amy was always the last of Harry's employees to leave, often hanging around to share tea and biscuits with him at four in the morning. She was a sweet-faced girl who reminded him a little of Luna; that was the main reason that he spared her any attention at all. However, Hermione had once said, only half-joking, that Amy had a crush on him. After that, Harry felt uncomfortable being alone with her and tried to avoid it as much as he could.

"You taking the Floo home?" he asked.

He was sure that was disappointment he glimpsed on her face, but he resolutely ignored it. "Yeah. See you Wednesday, Harry."

"Take it easy." Harry pretended to polish the bar, so that he didn't have to accompany her to the fire, even though Eileen had done a stunning job on it not an hour before.

Within seconds, he had completely forgotten Amy's existence. He was absorbed in dimming every light except the ones over the last occupied booth, enjoying the soft afterglow of naphtha.

He realised he was savouring the anticipation, and shook his head at himself. All the same, a faint smile crept on to his lips. As long as there was no one to see, what was the harm? As long as no one realised that, in a small way, Harry Potter was going completely loopy, it was fine.

But the fact was, he _liked_ Draco Malfoy. Liked him in the same way that a boy liked a girl, in the same way that he'd liked Cho and Ginny and Kate. There was the same sickening, top-of-a-roller coaster feeling every time he saw him, which, admittedly, wasn't much. Malfoy only ever came into the pub with Blaise -- or rather, quite a time after Blaise. That far from him, it was easy to wish away the Dark Mark.

He couldn't quite pinpoint when he'd stopped feeling blinding hatred for Malfoy and when it segued into a mild dislike. All he knew was that it niggled him more than any dislike should, right up until he'd reluctantly acknowledged that there was perhaps something more driving it.

Still, it didn't matter, because Harry was never ever going to _do_ anything about it. He was quite content to admire Malfoy from a purely aesthetic point of view, to ignore his nasty points (which did, of course, mean ignoring his whole personality), and wait for a suitable girl to come along.

It had been quite a while since any girl, suitable or not, had come along; but Harry wasn't bothered. When he wanted one, one would present herself; it was one of the benefits of being Harry Potter.

He realised he was humming to himself, and grinned. While innocently buffing a pristine wineglass, he angled his head so that he could see Malfoy in the mirror, all sprawled limbs and white throat poking out of expensive robes. It was fortunate for Malfoy that his family had money squirreled away in a thousand little ventures and schemes. Otherwise, he'd never have managed to carry on in the style to which he was accustomed after Voldemort's defeat.

Fortunate, indeed, because there was something about Malfoy that simply screamed "Class!" Although perhaps screaming was not quite the verb; it didn't seem polite enough. Draco wore his robes like a priceless painting wore an ornate frame, but sometimes they overwhelmed him. Other times, his collar would poke up, or his cuffs would be a tiny bit scruffy, or his hair would stick up in the back like he'd run his fingers through it, and Harry liked that best of all.

"Fine," he told his reflection, which was trying and failing to look disingenuous, "maybe I would like to ? but I'm never _going_ to, so shut up."

From the booth, Malfoy gave a groan. Realising his chance to wake him up, and perhaps touch his shoulder for a minute, was slipping away, Harry hurried out from behind the bar.

Malfoy's eyes were fluttering open by the time he got there. Harry swallowed his disappointment and marshalled his expression into something approaching indifference.

"Malfoy. I was wondering when you'd decide to wake up."

"Muh?" Malfoy made a groggy little noise in the back of his throat. Harry wanted to smile. "Am I -- mi drunk?"

"Naw, you're stone-cold sober." Harry leaned against the side of the booth. "You've had three margaritas, two mai-tais, one of those disgusting White Russians and enough tequila to fell an elephant. To be honest, Malfoy, I'm surprised that you aren't _dead_."

"Too many words," moaned Malfoy. He clutched his face, as if checking to see that it was still attached.

Harry was thankful that Malfoy was far too drunk to be suspicious of Harry keeping track of his drinks. Eileen had seemed amused that Harry insisted on serving all of them himself, and had even wondered at one point if Harry was going to go home at seven like he'd said he would, but aside from that no one else had noticed.

"You want to use the Floo?" asked Harry.

"Yeah!" Malfoy's eyes widened, revealing two bloodshot whites. He managed to look gloriously debauched with it, although Harry had not, of course, thought that thought. "Where is it?"

"Uh, in the _fire_." Harry wondered what Malfoy's home was like; perhaps he had a special room just for the Floo Network? Harry wouldn't put it past him. He'd already decided that Malfoy Manor had an orgy room, although that was more based on hope than solid evidence.

"Really?" Malfoy crinkled his forehead, seeming unsure as to what went where. "Always thought you were odd, Potter, but toilets in the fire? That's a bit much."

"Oh," sighed Harry, realisation dawning. "I said do you want to use the _Floo_ , not the loo, you tit."

Malfoy clasped two hands to his chest. "Nope. Don' have those either."

"Ker-rist." Harry eyed Malfoy, his brain working madly. Malfoy was in no state to Apparate; he'd probably get lost in the Floo Network; and Harry had no idea where to side-along Apparate him. That left Portkeys, but again, Harry didn't know the destination; so that left --

"You'd better stay the night," he announced, feeling a small coil of excitement in his chest at the thought. He crushed it. Something was bound to go pear-shaped. At best, Malfoy would think his motives highly suspect. But truly, Harry had a duty to society not to let Malfoy out in the streets in his highly delicate state. _Anyone_ could see that.

"Okay," said Malfoy. That, more than anything, convinced Harry that Malfoy was very, very drunk. Sober, he'd prefer to throw himself off a cliff than agree with any suggestion Harry made.

"Come on, then." Harry took a deep breath and grabbed Malfoy's hand to pull him upright. Yes; his chest did get even tighter, and his breath came quicker than normal, making him feel slightly dizzy -- but otherwise, he wasn't affected at _all_ by holding Malfoy's hand.

Once Harry had got him on his feet, Malfoy's head lolled alarmingly. He stumbled a few steps and pitched forward. Harry sprang into action, by instinct grabbing Malfoy around the waist. A deeper, more insistent instinct made him curl his fingers into the cloth of Malfoy's robes, trying to feel through for the hard contours of his body. This time, the sensation robbed him of all his breath.

"Blaise?" whispered Malfoy. Harry could see that his eyes were wet with unshed tears. "Blaise?" he said again.

Reluctantly, Harry loosed his grip. His heart was pounding at a thousand beats a minute from Malfoy's closeness, and he realised with something like despair that he could no longer treat this as a simple crush.

"No," he said. "H -- Potter."

"He left me." Malfoy's fingers came up to clutch his face and came away damp. "He left me!"

"It's all right," said Harry, somewhat hopelessly.

He patted Malfoy on the shoulder, trying not to let the touch deviate into a gentle stroking. It was so tempting -- and Malfoy wouldn't notice -- meanwhile, Harry was babbling something comforting about, "He'll come back, you'll see."

"No, no, he won't." Malfoy shook his head in big, wide swoops like a child. "Why should he? What have I got to offer?"

"What has anyone got to offer except themselves?" Harry laughed with a tinge of bitterness. What more could Blaise want than Malfoy -- his touch, his lips, his voice?

Blaise was an idiot.

"Potter." Harry watched Malfoy's mouth shape the word, and fell a little harder. "Potter, you save people. You're a hero." He grabbed Harry's shoulders. "You help me! You help me get him back! Yesh!"

An old voice murmured in Harry's ear, " _You have a saving-people thing_?"

Malfoy's hands were pinching his shirt and Harry could smell Malfoy's sweet-stale breath. He closed his eyes, sighing, but never for a moment contemplating denial.

"Yeah, all right. I'll help you." Harry couldn't say Blaise's name, but he didn't think the now-swaying Malfoy detected the omission. "But, first, bed," he added firmly.

* * *

Hermione giggled at the unintentional innuendo. Ron, who had done the same thing when Harry had sat him down to tell him " _Everything_ ," blew her a kiss. None of the children had hit puberty yet, so they didn't get the joke. Although Tai was an early bloomer if Ron ever saw one, and bore watching.

Tai was smiling happily.

"Is this real enough for you?" asked Ron.

"Oh, yes," said Tai. "But why've you stopped?"

"Well ?" began Ron.

* * *

Draco awoke to find himself fully clothed and in a strange bed. Both things had happened to him before, although never at once. He couldn't imagine who'd be so kinky as to have sex whilst fully clothed, but he likewise couldn't think of any other explanation for his state of dress.

He let his eyes travel around the room as he awoke fully, and began to assess the extent of his hangover. An open wardrobe spilled robes in shades of deep green and navy, which were the most boring Draco had seen since school. Blaise had robes in every shade of the rainbow, plus fuchsia.

Blaise. Draco felt a twist of pain in his gut, and whimpered. Blaise, who'd broken up with him last night. Never to feel those teasing hands or that hot mouth ever again ? it was almost too much to bear. Knowing it was all his own fault was something that he couldn't even contemplate without drowning in a wash of shame and guilt.

Draco fumbled his way to his feet. His new, ultra-conservative lover had removed his shoes and socks and stacked them, with more good intentions than finesse, beside the bed. Draco winced as he extricated his Italian silk socks from the toes of his leather brogues, where they'd been stuffed like a most unfortunate turkey.

Suddenly it seemed too much, to put on smelly wrinkled socks. His hangover chose that moment to make its unwelcome presence known with a symphony of pain in his head.

Taking a deep breath and summoning up some Malfoy steel, Draco wandered barefoot into the next room and almost dropped dead of shock.

Harry Potter was sitting at a table strewn with newspapers, calmly eating cornflakes and dressed in nothing but red polka-dot boxers. His legs, hooked on another chair, were covered in dark hair, but his chest was as smooth as cream. A shot of sunlight lit up his hair, which was as awful as Draco had ever seen it, and his bare shoulders.

"Oh my god, I had sex with Harry Potter," moaned Draco.

Potter let out a yelp and snatched some papers to his chest, upending his bowl as he did so and dripping soggy cornflakes into his lap. As Draco watched with growing amusement, Potter completed the sketch by banging his head against the table with a growl and tangling his hair in an open pot of honey.

"Are you always this co-ordinated, or have you been taking lessons?" Draco seated himself across from Potter, helping himself to some toast. He didn't have any idea what had possessed him to shag -- or let himself be shagged, he wasn't yet sure -- by Potter, of all people, but he was damned if he wasn't going to get a decent feed out of it. Hangovers always made him feel famished.

Potter raised his head. His fringe was clumped with honey and milk was pooling in the cleft of his chin. He gave Draco a baleful glance. "You surprised me."

"You can say that again." Draco edged Potter's hand out of the way and retrieved a butter dish. It was mercifully unscarred by Potter's attack of 'surprise,' which could also be read as 'rampaging psychosis' in Draco's book.

"How are you feeling?" Potter held out a clean knife, which Draco accepted with barely a revealing flicker of astonishment.

"How should I feel? My boyfriend just dumped me and I appear to have had extremely tame sex with the hero of the wizarding world." Draco sliced off some butter with clean savagery. "Actually, Potter, I'm on top of the world. The view is amazing."

Potter appeared to be ? blushing. Draco bit back a snort of laughter. Perhaps that explained why all his buttons were still firmly in their holes.

"We didn't have sex," muttered Potter. "You got drunk and I took you home. Here, I mean. To my home. I don't know where your home is."

"God lord." Draco sat back, the better to observe his unlikely saviour. "But this must be all in a day's work for you, Potter. Saving kittens from drowning and dastardly Slytherins from themselves, eh?"

"You asked for my help." Potter's voice was fierce in its calm. "You asked me to help you to get -- to get Blaise back."

This time Draco couldn't help it. He threw back his head and laughed. Potter looked highly affronted. After a time, Draco subsided, except for the odd chuckle.

"Potter, the relationship counsellor," he sniggered. "Now I've seen everything, and can die happy."

Potter shrugged. "If you don't want my help, just say so. You can return to your miserable little existence. See if I care."

"Oh, but you do." Draco grinned wickedly. "Otherwise you wouldn't have an erection."

Potter raised his eyebrows. This was not quite the embarrassed reaction that Draco had expected, and he frowned.

"Is this what you meant?" asked Potter coolly. He shifted in his chair to expose the end of his wand, poking out of the waistband of his boxers.

"Oops." Draco covered his mouth with his fingers, not really embarrassed. This was Potter, after all. He achieved more humiliation by just existing than Draco did from a whole French dictionary's worth of faux-pas.

Potter _had_ been telling the truth, but once Draco's eyes had been drawn to Potter's crotch, there they stayed. There was a small fold of skin over the top of his boxers, and a shadow that Draco could imagine was the beginning of coarse hair, and the sweetest little bulge across the front --

"When you're quite finished." Potter did his best, but his voice was more mortified than dignified and the blush was spreading over his nose again.

"Yeah." For once, Draco didn't have a snappy rejoinder; and in another moment Potter had wrapped himself in a dressing gown, covering everything of interest.

 

"First things first," said Potter, throwing a towel at him, "take a shower. You smell like a wino. Then, we'll come up with a plan."

"Plan?" Draco felt dazed, from an unappealing combination of detoxification and lust.

Potter's expression was, for him, inscrutable. "To win back Blaise. The bathroom's that way."

* * *

By the time Malfoy had emerged from the shower, Harry had got dressed and was within eighty degrees of feeling composed. He had scrounged up a parchment and quill, written the word 'Blaise' at the top and underlined it a few times. Then, to amuse himself, he'd added, "I want to see Malfoy naked," so of course that was one piece of parchment wasted and he had to go find another.

Malfoy sauntered in towelling his hair, with another towel slung about his hips. He'd got one of Harry's Muggle shirts draped across his shoulders, and all in all managed to look more shameless than if he had been wandering around in just a fig leaf. Harry stared at his feet, feeling the childish refusal of his internal organs to stay sedately in one place.

"My robes got wet," explained Malfoy. "They'll have to be dry-cleaned before I can wear them again."

"Can't you just use a Drying Spell?" Harry asked Malfoy's toes.

"On Blarney wool?" Malfoy sounded appalled. "God, Potter, you are such a plebe."

"I do my best." Harry grit his teeth. It didn't follow that because he wanted to stick his tongue down Malfoy's throat, Malfoy would suddenly become a decent human being, did it? In a fair universe, it would have, but it wasn't a fair universe. Luna had proved that, as had Sirius and Dumbledore before her.

And in a fair universe, Harry would not be helping Malfoy win back his ex-boyfriend.

Malfoy dropped to the sofa beside him, stretching his legs on to the coffee table. The sinuous curve of his calves made Harry ache, so he quickly concentrated on his parchment.

"You're going to make notes." Malfoy's voice was toffee-coated sardonic. "How sweet."

"If you have any better ideas, let me know," snapped Harry.

"If I did, do you think I'd be in this ridiculous situation in the first place?" Harry chanced a look at Malfoy's eyes; they were hollow concrete tunnels leading nowhere.

"Well." Harry played with his quill. He was fairly certain it was a relic of his school days, and raggy from biting. "I suppose the first thing you can do is tell me why you broke up."

"How should I know?" snapped Malfoy. Immediately, his shoulders took on a defensive set.

Harry knew that look. He'd endured it all through the swansong of his relationship with Ginny. Denial was what it was.

"Let me simplify it for you." Harry was unable to stop a sneer from creeping into his voice. Much as his heart might dance, it was far easier to slip into the age-old habit of cruel bickering with Malfoy. After all, it would never do for Malfoy to realise just how vested was Harry's interest in his love life. "Did you cheat on him? Did he cheat on you? Were you fighting? Did you drift apart? Do you -- love him?"

"God," breathed Malfoy, in such awe-struck tones that Harry half-expected that he was seeing a vision of some weeping deity over Harry's shoulder. "It doesn't bother you, does it?"

"What? Religion?" Harry frowned. "I have nothing against it personally, it just isn't my cup of tea --"

"You huge, huge pillock," said Malfoy, sweetly. "I meant _homosexuality_. You're entirely comfortable with the notion, aren't you?" He shifted infinitesimally closer to Harry on the sofa. "Almost _too_ comfortable."

Harry shifted infinitesimally further away from Malfoy. His voice came out flatter than he'd meant it to be. "It's 2006, hardly the Dark Ages."

"What, you mean 1976?" Malfoy's laugh was peculiarly throaty.

"No. I just meant -- oh, screw it. Trust you to get the entirely wrong end of the stick," said Harry, impassioned. "I don't even know why I'm bothering to help you!"

"Nor do I." Malfoy lounged back, allowing the shirt to slip off his white shoulders. "Pray, enlighten me, Potter."

Harry grit his teeth, willing himself not to rise to the bait and gaze at all that lovely bare skin. Clearly, whoever was in charge upstairs was completely blind, to give someone like Malfoy such a wickedly tempting body.

Or perhaps that was the point?

And did that make Harry gay?

To clear his buzzing thoughts, Harry scrawled a large number one on the parchment. "So were you unfaithful?"

"How delightfully archaic of you." Malfoy snorted. "'Unfaithful.' Yes, I shagged around occasionally, but Blaise knew about it. He did it too, for crying out loud."

Harry made a non-committal noise. He'd heard about open relationships, of course, and felt a vague disapproval for them. Perhaps it was that which spurred his next question, for certainly his higher brain centres had little to do with it and later disowned it utterly.

"Do you think he did it too because he wanted to, or because you were doing it?"

The playful half-smile seemed to freeze on Malfoy's lips. It was a long time before he moved, and Harry was half-contemplating going to fetch some tea when he spoke.

"I --" Malfoy cleared his throat. "Blaise never complained."

Harry shrugged. "Well, it's not why you broke up, anyway. You didn't have some huge blow-out over an affair or anything."

"Blow-out?" Malfoy licked his lips, restored almost instantly to his usual self. "Why yes, we often did after an affair. Thinking about Blaise with another man always made me frightfully horny."

"Well, you always were a bloody perv," muttered Harry. "I can't believe you used the words 'frightfully' and 'horny' together, by the way."

"That is because you're as common as muck, Potter," said Malfoy, with falsetto sympathy. "Build a bridge and get over it."

"As far as I recall, it was only you and your ilk that ever had a problem with class," Harry retorted. "Um -- but this is completely irrelevant. Why did you break up, then? You might as well be honest. Well, honest for you. I don't care either way."

Which was one of the biggest lies Harry had ever told, but Malfoy was hardly likely to realise that.

Malfoy sighed, and pulled some of his feather-light hair down over his face. "I was late." His words were muffled by the pout that bunched up his lips like a drawstring bag.

"Is that _all_?"

"Oh, you don't understand." Malfoy huffed. "I was late repeatedly, whenever we were supposed to meet up. And Blaise -- well, he can be such a sensitive soul. He thought I was doing it on purpose."

"And were you?"

"Of course!" Malfoy went very red. "Not. Of course _not_."

Harry made a face. He didn't much like the thought of Malfoy and Blaise together, that stood to reason. However, Blaise was fairly attractive in his own right. If Harry _had_ been gay, and in any way on the prowl, he wouldn't have kicked Blaise out of the bed in the morning. Malfoy seemed to be suffering from a bipolar reaction to his former lover, however; one minute belly-aching about getting him back, the next admitting to standing him up on purpose.

"Ah." Harry twirled his quill as he pondered ways to phrase his next question without using the word 'love.' Regretfully, he decided that it was impossible.

"Will you stop doing that!" Malfoy batted at Harry's fingers, knocking the quill away.

"Sorry." Harry turned to him in surprise. Malfoy was curled up in the corner of the sofa now, his toes all piled on top of one another and his lower lip jutting out further than his nose.

"It's annoying," muttered Malfoy, obviously by way of explanation.

Harry decided to just plunge ahead. "So, Malfoy, were you --"

"I think you may call me Draco," interrupted Malfoy, with an air of ponderous dignity. "If I'm to regale you with every sordid detail of my life, you might as well make me feel a bit more comfortable about it."

"Oh, I don't think that'll be necessary." Harry paused. "Draco." He liked being able to say that, because it felt like something that was slightly exotic and of questionable legality.

"Yes, well." Malfoy raked his eyes up and down Harry's face, sending him reeling. "Perhaps I shouldn't, after all. The jealousy would probably kill you."

"I somehow doubt it," said Harry, after a beat. "Did you love him?"

Malfoy tucked his chin into his neck. The action cast his face into a different light, allowing Harry to observe the faint stubble dusting his chin. It made hot things happen in the pit of his stomach. He wondered why. None of his girlfriends had ever been particularly enamoured of kissing him when he hadn't shaved in a while; on the contrary, they gave out merry hell about it. It wasn't technically an attractive thing.

Then again, technically there was no way that Harry would be attracted to Draco Malfoy.

"That's rather bald, even for you." Trying to catch Draco's skittering gaze was like trying to holding sunlight. "I mean, what do you define as love --"

"I think if you have to define it, you aren't feeling it," said Harry. That was his experience of the matter, in any case.

A smile flittered across Malfoy's lips. "A fatal dichotomy, in other words. You love, therefore you are."

"Whatever." Harry retrieved his quill and tapped his mouth with it. "I think the first thing you have to do is win him back by wiles. Woo him. Make him realise that --" he gulped, his throat suddenly dry "-- he's nothing without you."

"Why, Potter, I could almost accuse you of poetry." Malfoy's voice was not quite wry enough for sarcasm. Harry hoped.

"So. What are his favourite things? What could you buy him or do for him that would be really special?"

"Well, I suppose I could give him a rim-job," said Malfoy lazily, "but, frankly, I don't think I'd ever love anyone _that_ much."

"Okay, so no rim-jobs," said Harry, wondering what in hell they were. Did they have any relation to blow-jobs? "What about books? Or -- wine?"

"Blaise does collect art," mused Malfoy. "Perfectly hideous Neo-Plasticism. I keep telling him, if it's not done in oils and your best robes, then it just isn't _painting_."

"There you go. Buy him some Plasticine. It'll really show that you, er, care." Harry wondered if his words sounded as stupid as he thought they did. Malfoy surely wasn't buying this crap, was he?

Malfoy gave him a measured glance. "I'll bear it in mind. But I'm agog, Potter. Why are you _really_ doing this?"

"I told you," said Harry. "I don't know." He hitched a smile on to his face. "I mean, I don't like you." _I'd just like to lick you._ "But, well, if you were happy maybe you would be a less horrible person, and it would ? spread out, or something."

"Happy?" Malfoy barked a laugh. "You think having Blaise back will make me happy?"

"Isn't that the point?" asked Harry, feeling confused.

"I haven't the faintest idea," said Malfoy, his voice fading as, just like that, he was gone.

Harry blinked at the space he'd vacated. A few seconds later, a sizzled piece of parchment appeared and floated on to the sofa.

It read: _I'll be in touch._

Harry went into his bathroom and stared for a while at the midnight blue robes crumpled up on the floor. Then, hardly believing that he was doing it, he crouched down and gathered them to his face, inhaling deeply.

He'd tell Malfoy that there was a fire in the dry-cleaners, and offer to reimburse him. It was utterly pathetic, but as Harry swathed himself in Malfoy's scent, a safe distance away from Malfoy himself, he found that he couldn't care less.

* * *

Sally poked her head around the door. "The milk's boiling, if you want it."

"Aw, Auntie Sally!" whined Tai. "We were just getting to the good part!"

"Why, is someone going to die?" asked Sally. Her face brightened. Ron had always wondered where she'd inherited her bloodthirsty tendencies from -- if Hermione had a well-hidden history of mass murder in her past.

"I hope not," whispered Elaine. "It's so romantic."

"I fink it's borin'," said Gerold defiantly. "Just a bunch of grown-ups nancyin' around talkin'. Where's the blood, that's what I wanna know."

"Good point, that man." Sally ruffled her nephew's head. "So, do you want cocoa?"

"I do!" claimed at least six voices. Sally's smile became fixed.

"Just bring it in here, darling," said Hermione. "I'll Transfigure it."

"Cool," said Tai. "That means you can keep going." He put a hand proprietorally on Ron's knee.

"Indeed." Ron thought fast. In truth, this tale told more like the Kama Sutra than the Bumper Book of Children's Stories. Still, Tai was not one to be foiled with weak imitiations. Ron would just have to water it down a little.

"Where were we? Ah yes, the plan to win back Blaise's heart." Ron smiled. "Little did Harry or Draco know that it wouldn't go quite as they'd thought ?"

* * *

It was a week later when Harry woke up to find a large barn owl perched on his pillow, eyeing him balefully. By a haughty ruffling of feathers, it seemed to suggest that of all the things Harry could do with a pillow, keeping it waiting whilst sleeping on one was not an even remotely acceptable option.

The note was from Malfoy -- or Draco. Harry said the name aloud, just for the shiver it created deep under his skin.

Then he had to ask himself if he was quite right in the head, going to sleep every night with images of a naked Draco dancing like sugarplums in his head.

But then again, when had a crush ever been based on sense and cool-headed-logic? Never. In that Harry was comforted. Crushes were almost his natural emotional home.

The note read: _I searched for a present for Blaise. I found the most hideous sculpture, made out of what looked like half a tortured goat and a steel chair. It set me back a few thousand Galleons. I sent it to his flat, but I found it back on my doorstep the next day. Accompanied by a letter, to the effect of 'if you think you can buy me off, then you can take your head out of your arse and think again' ß (that was verbatim)_

I need more advice, Potter. And it had better not suck this time.

Harry scowled, the brief image of Draco's luscious mouth replaced with one of Harry throttling him. The owl made an impatient chirping noise.

"Tell him to bugger off, why don't you," snapped Harry. "Oh, wait, you can't."

"Afraid to say it to my face, are you?" Draco sauntered in, balancing something that looked suspiciously like the scone Harry was going to have for breakfast on his palm. "I would be, if I were you. Wouldn't do to have people thinking you'd like to bugger me."

Harry retained enough sense not to say anything heated. "I said bugger _off_ , as in piss off, go away, you couldn't possibly be more annoying if you took lessons. That kind of thing."

"Don't beat about the bush anyway, Potter." Draco broke off a crumb of scone and popped it in his mouth. "Do you always sleep naked, or just when I'm around?"

This time Harry couldn't stop the blush. Pointedly, he lifted the blanket to show his pyjama bottoms. "It was hot last night," he added.

"I'll bet it was." Draco snorted. "Here, Hephastion." At his call, the owl took flight and landed on Draco's outstretched arm. "This tastes awful. Do you have anything to drown the taste?"

"Nobody _asked_ you to eat my breakfast," said Harry.

"A gentleman never waits to be _asked_." Draco opened the window and shook the bird off. "I'll go search your misbegotten hovel for some decent coffee. Meanwhile, you, clothes." He gestured at the wardrobe, shuddered, and strolled back through the door.

 _The cheek of him!_ thought Harry. Then, quite to his own amazement, he found himself doing as Draco commanded.

Draco was flicking through some Quidditch magazines when Harry emerged, having decided that it would be a good idea to also clean his teeth, slap on some aftershave and have a wrestle with his hair, which it won. Draco lounged as if the sofa had been designed around him, instead of the other way about, and his fingers held the magazine almost vertical as he scanned the pictures. He'd opened the collar of his robes so that the base of his throat lay exposed, and for a second Harry couldn't hear himself think.

After what seemed like an eternity of burning eyes, Draco raised his eyes and asked, "Had a good look?"

"I -- wait, I wasn't --" Harry was flustered; he had no idea that he'd been that obvious. He didn't even know why he was feeling guilty.

"You were." Draco didn't sound angry, so Harry sat down in the armchair across from him, twitching his robes over his knees.

"So --"

"Were you ever any good at chess, Potter? Because it's your move."

"No -- I mean, I'm all right. But Ron is the real master."

"And yet I have you." Draco sighed. "Not that I would let that gingery oaf tamper with my romantic dealings. I suppose it's because you're just so wholesome, Potter. Trusting you is practically a law."

"I'm not wholesome!" protested Harry, unthinking. "That is, I can be just as exciting as -- other people --"

"Don't tell me." Draco leaned forward, his eyes twinkling. Harry could see down his robes, and why that was thrilling when there was no cleavage there Harry didn't quite understand. "Sometimes, before bed, you have cocoa!"

Harry scowled. "Sometimes, before bed, I drink a bottle of tequila and kill you in your sleep." He was starting to wonder if he really had been possessed by some malignant spirit, to think that he fancied Draco.

Then Draco smiled and Harry squeezed his eyes shut, dazzled.

So, no spirit, then.

"You could try ? flowers and chocolate," he muttered. That's what Ron always bought Hermione when they fought.

"Blaise is gay, not a girl." Draco sounded amused. "This is going to take the big guns, Potter. The whole 'fools rushing in where angels fear to tread' deal, the one you have down to a fine art. Not some dead plants and a box full of calories."

"Gee, thanks. You really know who to get people on your side, don't you?"

"I could always show you my big scar and hope you'll pity me," returned Draco. "Or how about I trot out my dead parents for good measure?" His gaze was hard as flint. "I have no objection to winning Blaise back, but don't expect me to be -- _nice_ about it. Jesus."

There was a pause.

"Well, _do_ you have a big scar?" asked Harry finally.

"Why, yes. Courtesy to your good self. Would you care to see?" Draco's lilting tone would not have been out of place at a garden party. It made Harry's knees feel weak.

"Go on, then," he managed.

Not lifting his eyes from Harry's face, Draco slid his finger down between the clasps of his robes, opening them with one stroke. When he reached his bellybutton, he stopped, and pushed his shoulders back.

His chest was flat, but with contours that were physiologically attached to Harry's throat. He simply could not stop swallowing. He had a saliva defect, that was all it was. And Draco had a thick silvery scar running from one dusty-pink -- one pinchable -- one _nipple_ ; Harry congratulated himself for remembering how to think the word -- across his ribcage.

"You remember that curse?" Draco pressed two fingers against the scar, tossing his hair back. The scar was exactly that thick, but a few millimetres more and Draco would be touching his nipple.

This fact was doing very funny things to Harry's stomach, and head, and face, and in fact every part of his anatomy worth mentioning.

To combat this hostile takeover, he blurted, with more venom than he even felt any more, "How could I forget? That was the year you tried to kill Dumbledore."

For a moment, Draco was perfectly motionless. Harry, his face twisted in a grief that never truly went away, watched his eyelashes flutter. Then, like a whirlwind, Draco's wild magic took hold, sending the coffee table scudding into the wall and cracking its glass top. The way clear, Draco stalked forwards and shoved his arm in Harry's face.

"You see this?" His voice was low, but it rang in Harry's ears as loudly as if he'd shouted. His Dark Mark was all Harry could see. "That ugly scar of yours came from the same person. Did you want that scar? Did you want your parents to die so you could have it? Well, _did_ you?"

Hypnotised, Harry shook his head.

"I took this scar so that my parents _wouldn't_ die. And they did anyway, so it was all a useless fucking waste. But think about this for a second, why don't you, _Chosen One_. If you could kill someone you barely knew, who mattered nothing to you, so that the only people you ever truly loved wouldn't die, would you? Or, to _bring_ them back -- would you kill for that?"

Harry couldn't say yes. When he looked up into Draco's stormy face, he realised why.

At that moment, Hermione arrived.

* * *

Sally was lounging in the doorway, all thoughts of cocoa forgotten. Frank passed by once or twice, frowning in, obviously wondering what was going on.

"I don't see what's so boring about cocoa," complained Tai. "I love it!"

"You'll understand when you're older," Ron assured him, with a grin.

"I hate that excuse," grumbled Tai.

"But that's Grandma, isn't it!" cried Elaine. "When you said Hermione, wasn't that Grandma?"

"It was indeed," said Ron. "She was the cleverest witch you'd ever meet, back then, before you came along." He winked at her. "Harry realised straight away that she was the perfect person to help Draco with his problems. She didn't want to at first --"

"Why?" Tai was frowning like a thundercloud.

"Ah, well, people don't always like each other immediately." Ron coughed, avoiding Hermione's eye. It was the understatement of two centuries. "And we didn't trust Draco as much then as we did later. But somehow -- because Harry didn't understand himself why he wanted to help Draco --"

"He fancied him rotten," said Elaine wisely.

Ron laughed. "That he did, a great deal. He just wasn't ready to admit it. But Hermione knew almost straightaway. And she realised that she could do a lot to help Harry, if she decided to."

"And did she?" Elaine was breathless with anticipation.

"Of course she did," scoffed Tai. "She's a good person. That's what being good means."

Hermione sent Tai a strange look. Ron intercepted it with something like an upside-down smile.

"What do you expect?" Ron's tone was mixed nostalgia and admiration. "Look where he came from."

"You're right," Hermione told Elaine. "I did help Harry. But I was careful not to let him know I'd discovered his secret. Because, first, I was going to have to check that Draco wasn't just playing him for a fool ?"

* * *

Potter pressed a cup of tea into Granger's hands, murmuring something solicitous. In his place Draco too would have offered sympathy, given that Granger was heavily pregnant, _again._ She was only twenty-six, and from her girth she looked like she was soon going to give birth to a baby elephant.

"What on earth did you do to your table, Harry?" Granger sipped at her tea, wincing when Potter couldn't see. Potter had turned to stare at the table, his fingers tapping against his palm.

"I, er, tripped," he said. "And knocked it. It was quite painful," he added, beaming.

Granger sighed, but didn't look overtly suspicious; Draco took it that Potter was always doing things of the sort. Draco actually wouldn't have been surprised if Potter's brain had become addled, what with all the injuries and blows he'd taken over the years. Some of them had come from Draco, which was something to be proud of, he supposed.

"So. Malfoy." Granger turned her eyes on him, and for common hazel eyes they could be as piercing as a rain of tiny needles. "I gather you're here for some help with your relationship with Blaise?" The way she said it, 'You're here to recruit Harry for a task-force hell-bent on invading Mars' would have sounded a good deal more feasible.

"That's right." Draco made another attempt to straighten his rucked robes. It was no use; they'd have to be soaked and ironed before they were respectable again. Potter was looking at him with a rather misty expression _._ "He took advantage of me when I was drunk."

"I did _what_?" roared Potter, the mists clearing quite abruptly to reveal a scorching Sahara sunrise.

"Harry!" exclaimed Granger, reprovingly. Draco expected her to tell him off for shouting, but what she said was, "That's not like you. You don't need to get people drunk for them to like you!"

Draco spluttered. "I wouldn't _like_ him if I was pickled in a vat of vodka! What I meant was, he found me after I'd broken up with Blaise, and in a fit of sentimental chivalry --"

"He asked me," Potter broke in. "He was crying all over my shirt and then he begged me to help him get Blaise back. Which I'm starting to think was a bigger mistake than --" He paused, frowning, obviously trying to pick a mistake from a long list.

"Calm down, boys, calm." Granger's soothing voice made Draco want to smash something. "There's no need for the recriminations and explanations. Harry, you are sometimes too kind for your own good, but that's a problem for another day. The question is, how has the whole Blaise situation been going?"

"Disastrous," claimed Draco, striking a dramatic pose. It would have looked a good deal better in neat robes, but some things in life couldn't be helped. Potter's hair was daily proof of that.

"I suggested that he buy Blaise a gift that showed he cared," explained Potter. "Blaise wasn't exactly appreciative."

"It was possibly the worst thing you could have done." Granger's face didn't look half as victorious as Draco would have expected. On the contrary, she looked almost moved, and certainly thoughtful.

 _Bloody Gryffindors,_ thought Draco in disgust.

"Harry, could you fetch me sugar for this tea?" asked Granger. "I need some brain food."

"Sure." Potter ambled off towards the kitchen. As soon as he was out of earshot, Granger turned on Draco with a speed belied by her distended frame.

"Just what is your game, Malfoy?" she hissed. "Don't think I'm swallowing this damsel in distress line for one single second."

Draco was taken aback. "Why not? It's the truth. What, did you think I was so desperate for some of Potter's galumphing company that I'd invent a ludicrous excuse to get his attention?"

Granger narrowed her eyes. "There's nothing bad I wouldn't think about you. But do you really want his help in winning back your boyfriend? Harry isn't even gay."

Draco snorted. "That's all you know."

"Well," Granger amended, "he hasn't yet shown any inclination in that direction. However, even if he were, he's got zilch experience in that area. What could he possibly advise you to do?"

"Oh, I don't know," sighed Draco. "Perhaps he could challenge Blaise at sword point to a duel for my honour or something. You know, heroics? He has a bit of a thing for those, I'm sure you've noticed."

"Mmm." Granger's mouth was a hard little line. Even her hair seemed flatter than usual. It made sense; her body was obviously conserving all its explodable energy for her womb.

"Here you go." Potter shambled back into the room, trying to balance two mugs and a crystal sugar bowl. "I wasn't sure if you wanted more sugar in your tea, or just sugar, or how many sugars you wanted in your tea, so I brought you ? all the options." He placed his offerings on the stool beside Hermione's chair, blowing his hair out of his face with a pleading expression.

Draco felt a sudden, odd sensation in his chest. He dismissed it as a mild case of heartburn. He didn't realise until later how accurate a diagnosis it was.

"Thank you, Harry." Granger smoothed down some of Potter's hair, which was spitting into the wind as far as Draco was concerned. She took the sugar bowl into her lap, staring at it as if seized with a sudden onslaught of inspiration. Draco held his breath. Mudblood or not, Granger's brainpower was a force to be reckoned with.

"Do you have any gerkins?" she murmured at last. "They'd go a treat with this sugar ?"

Potter looked as dumbfounded as Draco felt. "Gerkins? I don't think so. What are they? Some kind of plant?"

"Cravings," said Draco, in tones of mild repugnance.

Potter turned confused eyes on him, but he snapped them away almost instantly, a blush rising like a determined vampire. "Gerkins are a craving?"

"No, Granger's having cravings." Draco snorted. "Next thing you know she'll want onions and ice-cream, or something equally hideous."

"That was last week." Granger was grinning. Draco squinted at her, trying to ascertain if his suspicion that she had in fact been cracking a joke was correct. He settled for ambivalence and a faint upturning of his mouth, which could be taken for a sneer in the right light.

"Are you hungry? I could make you a sandwich," offered Potter. Draco felt disgruntled. He'd got no offers of sandwiches from Potter. Only a stale scone, and he'd had to steal _that_. He was surprised that Potter even had the ingredients for a sandwich. Draco's snoop of his kitchen had revealed that Potter was quite clearly the most inefficient grocery shopper in the world, barring Draco.

"It's all right. I've had an idea." Granger pursed her lips. Draco disliked the way she was looking between him and Potter; her expression reeked of a cunning that was, by Slytherin standards, at least up to that of a ten-year-old.

"I think," she said, slowly, rubbing her stomach in a vaguely intimate gesture, "that the main thing to do is convince Blaise that he does want Malfoy back. After all, he dumped you, correct?"

"Yeah," muttered Draco mulishly. Potter was trying to hide a grin, but not putting any great effort into it.

"So the thing to do is ?make him jealous. Remind him of what he once had -- and, preferably, how good it was -- and make him want it again."

"And how exactly do we do that? It's a good idea in theory, I'll grant you, but short of sending him my Pensieve --"

"Simple." Granger cut Draco short without a blink. She looked like a remarkably pregnant lizard. "You use Harry."

"I do what?" exclaimed Draco, at the precise moment that Potter yelled, "He does _what_?"

Potter seemed strangely outraged at the idea, given that he'd been all but eyeing up Draco earlier, but Draco was too preoccupied with his own rage to give this concept much brain-space.

"Will I have to use a Silencing Spell on the two of you?" Granger looked far more amused than she had any right to be. "Hear me out. I'm not suggesting that you _actually_ start going out with Harry, Malfoy. I'm sure the idea is equally abominable to the both of you. _However,_ since Harry's the only one likely to help you in this situation, you'll have to use him as your decoy. Take him out where Blaise can see, act all loved-up, and I guarantee that Blaise will come running back within a month."

"A whole _month_?" gasped Potter. "Do you realise what this will mean, Hermione?"

Granger sent her friend a measured glance. "Yes. You haven't had a girlfriend for years, Harry. No, don't shake your head. Kate was the last. You were twenty-two when you broke up. That makes it four years."

"I've gone on dates," interjected Potter feebly.

"Yes. But you know everyone's adolescence got a bit muddled up, what with Voldemort and the war. I think you probably have a latent desire to experiment with --" Granger cleared her throat delicately "-- the opposite sex. When better to indulge that than now, with Malfoy, and no strings attached?"

"How can I 'indulge?'" Potter sounded sceptical, as well he might. Draco was not _available_ to be _indulged_ of, after all. "We're only pretending."

Granger actually 'tsk'ed. Draco had never seen anyone do that outside of a book. "You'll have to kiss, for the look of the thing. And there's your experiment, in a nutshell."

She beamed, as if she hadn't made the craziest suggestion since Eve held out the apple and said, "Ah, go on." Even Potter was looking thoughtful.

Draco was about to step forward with a dozen well-crafted litanies against the insanity of Gryffindors in general and Granger in particular, when Potter raised a hand to tug at his lip, lost in thought.

His inner lip was fleshy and wet. Draco drew in a sharp breath through his nose, abstracted ideas drifting teasingly out of definition in his mind.

Granger was looking at him, with a expression of comfortable speculation, and she damn well _knew._

"What do you say, Malfoy?" she asked. "It _is_ your future we're talking about here."

Potter shoved his hands into his pockets, his moment of daily cogitation clearly at a close. He refused to meet Draco's eye.

That was enough. Draco would be failing in his duty as a nemesis to pass up any opportunity to embarrass the hell out of Potter.

"It can't be worse than Potter's last idea." Draco raised one shoulder and let it fall, his gaze fixed on the messy crown of Potter's head.

"It's _Harry_."

The world tilted on its axis, Draco felt wrong-footed, Granger was _smirking_ , and Po -- Harry -- _Potter_ was making fists in his jeans pockets.

"Whatever," muttered Draco.

"You can call me Hermione," said Granger, with the air of one bestowing a fabulous favour. "Now that the introductions are over, I think I'd best be going. We're going to Molly's for dinner. You're coming Saturday after next, right, Harry?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world." Harry's smile was wide and untidy. Draco felt stupidly left out.

"I'd better go too," he announced. "I'll be in touch, P -- Harry."

"Goodbye, Draco," said Harry solemnly.

As Draco stepped into the green flames, he had the uncomfortable feeling that someone was taking a hammer to the Berlin wall inside his chest.

* * *

"Remind me again how G -- Hermione wangled this one?" Draco frowned, still looking suspicious. Harry sighed.

"She got Colin Creevey to ask Blaise out. Colin does part-time work for the Ministry, so Hermione was able to get his details through Percy. He agreed to go to the restaurant she suggested tonight. I _did_ write this in the letter."

"Yes, you did." Draco's eyes, staring at his reflection over Harry's shoulder, made Harry's insides squirm in a way that was not altogether unpleasurable. "I still don't understand why. I take it this Colin is gay, and that he'd probably jump at the chance of scoring someone like Blaise, but how did Hermione explain it?"

"She didn't." Harry cleared his throat. His hair wasn't going to get any better, not for all the gels and tugging in the world, but he didn't want to move away from the mirror and Draco. Draco was emitting warmth that had nothing to do with body heat. "I agreed to do a favour for him."

"And what was the nature of this favour, dare I ask? Does it involve impinging on your spotless Gryffindor virtue?" Draco's smirk brought out a dimple in his chin. He looked like a cupid who'd just done something very naughty with his bow and arrow.

"My virtue is far from spotless," Harry retorted with some heat. "And I agreed to let him take some photographs of me."

"Naked?" Draco didn't look altogether disgusted by this prospect, which cheered Harry for some reason, even as he deplored Draco's utter lack of morals.

"Of course not. For a spread in _Witch Weekly._ Colin's been wanting to do one for ages."

Draco pouted. "You could still be naked. With a strategically draped piece of leopard-skin. I'm sure it would send sales through the roof."

"Yeah, and I'd probably get arrested." Harry had been fluffing at his hair for what felt like forever at this point; he slanted his eyes sideways to see if Draco was done primping.

"Well, your hair is obviously as good as it'll get." Draco sighed. "Come here, we've got to do something about this kissing business."

"The what business?" Harry spoke loudly, to cover his sudden galloping heart. His palms began to sweat at the mere thought of getting to kiss Draco.

Draco clucked his tongue. "Blaise knows I'm a tactile person. He'll expect me to be touching you all the way through our little ? date." He sniffed. "I can hardly throw the lips on you in the middle of the hors d'oeuvres only to have you scream and try to stab me with a melon knife."

"I -- I'm sure that's not --" stammered Harry. Now that it came to the point, Harry wasn't certain that he _could_ kiss Draco. Even with his girlfriends, he'd rarely initiated contact, and they were girls and that was normal. This was ? about as far from normal as it was possible to get without creeping up behind it, and Draco was all hard lines and _male_.

Harry swallowed as he felt interested stirrings between his legs, every one focused on Draco's hardness and maleness.

"Honestly, Potter," whispered Draco, who was suddenly inches from Harry's face. He tilted his head, parting his lips a little. "It's as easy ? as ? this ?"

His mouth closed on Harry's, and that was it. He was kissing Draco Malfoy.

It was terrifying and wonderful, even though all Draco was doing was brushing his lips over and across Harry's until he wanted to scream with longing. He teased out Harry's lower lip, gently sucking on it, and Harry realised that Draco was _very_ good at this.

He drew back and the air cooled the saliva on Harry's mouth, making him shiver.

"Wasn't so hard, now was it, _Harry_?" Draco's tone was light and mocking, and never more so than on the last word. "Right. Let's see how you go with tongues. Kiss me."

"What?" Harry blinked sleepily at Draco, his lips still tingling.

"Kiss me. Put your tongue in my mouth. Come on, you _have_ to have done this before."

"Of course I have." Affronted, Harry angled Draco's jaw with his fingers, trying not to betray how foreign and tantalising the stubble felt under his skin. His mouth felt suddenly dry.

Draco was standing with his mouth slightly open, clearly waiting with impatience. Wincing, Harry pressed his lips to Draco's, nudging them apart so that he could slide his tongue through. Draco's obvious indifference and Harry's own nervousness made it an awkward affair and, as soon as Harry felt teeth, an extremely truncated one.

"Potter." Draco's cheeks were flushed and his mouth damp. Harry felt something grab his lower abdomen and clench tightly. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that the tongue is not an offensive weapon?" He shook his head. "Looks like I'm going to have to teach you."

With that, he pressed Harry against the wall. His hands slid up to cup Harry's face, stroking over the tips of his cheekbones and tangling in his hair. With a smouldering look of hunger that almost frightened Harry, he leaned in rub his lips over Harry's until, obeying some primitive force, Harry's mouth dropped open.

Then, _then_ came Draco's tongue, thick and rough, filling up Harry's mouth, even as he stretched to give it more room. Harry couldn't remember ever having being kissed like this, with such barely-contained passion. Draco kissed Harry like he wanted to eat him alive, and made him believe for a little while that it would be a good thing, too.

When he slid away, Harry nearly keened in distress. Slowly, his surroundings came back to him, and he became aware of his embarrassingly prominent erection. He looked in vain to see if Draco was similarly effected. Draco had turned back to his reflection, to settle his mussed hair.

Harry didn't remember doing that.

"Um?" he tried.

"I think we can count that as a success," said Draco, not looking at him. "We'd better go, we're running half-an-hour late as it is."

* * *

Draco took Harry's hand as they wove their way through the restaurant in the wake of the the maitre d'. The place was crammed with tiny tables draped in rose-covered cloth and lit by flickering candles. Every chair endeavoured to have intimate relations with the one behind it; bags and cloaks lay hopelessly tangled on the floor. Negotiating a path to their table was like running an obstacle course, only more difficult.

Draco was surprised that Harry let him hold hands, although he was pleased. It cemented the masquerade. Harry had been surprisingly quiet since they'd kissed. Draco would almost have taken him for docile if he hadn't known better.

The fact that he was disturbed by how strongly he'd reacted to having Harry's mouth under his own had nothing to do with anything.

They passed conspicuously close to Blaise and Colin's table. Draco tried to catch his former lover's eye, but Blaise was either entirely engrossed in his companion's conversation or putting on a very good act. With Blaise, it was hard to tell. Colin was waving his hands in the air, his face animated, and Blaise was listening with his cheek in his hand. It was a very fetching attitude on him, as well he knew.

Draco was surprised to see that Colin was actually quite good-looking, if you liked blokes who looked like a long strip of seaweed with hair to match. His locks were nothing like as burnished as Draco's, being more of the dry-hay variety; but Draco supposed he fit Blaise's type, if such a thing existed.

"Did he see you?" hissed Harry, once they were seated and plied with tasselled menus.

"No, and don't whisper. It carries far more easily than quiet talking." Draco sat back with an entirely false air of relaxation.

"Really? I never knew that."

"Add it to your long list." Draco smirked. "Under 'kissing with tongues.'"

Harry flushed and looked miserable. He didn't even retort, so Draco forwent his plan of taunting him till he was blue in the face. He didn't admit his philanthropy came as a revelation to him -- _that_ would be to admit defeat. Instead, he leant forward and touched Harry's hand.

"Not to worry, Harry," he said. "You were far from the worst I've had. With a little practice, you'll be able to make your next girlfriend come without laying a finger on her."

"Draco!" Harry sounded scandalised. "Don't talk about things like that in public."

Draco laughed. "Why not? It's only what everyone's thinking."

"It's not." Harry's voice was firm. "For example, _I'm_ thinking that I'll have oysters to start. I've never had them before, are they nice?"

"Wonderful." Draco dropped his voice to a husky rumble, realising with a start that he was flirting with Harry. "They're a _very_ potent aphrodisiac."

Harry rolled his eyes to heaven -- and blushed. "You're incorrigible," he sighed.

Draco just smirked.

* * *

Harry was just tucking into a gooey chocolate cake with gusto when Draco said, "Oh, no! They're leaving."

"Damn." Harry hurriedly sucked up a forkful of cake. "Have they seen us, do you think? Should we follow them?"

"No need." Draco's eyes were fixed on Blaise, and he was chewing his lip. Harry knew what that tasted like ? "They're coming over."

Colin's whole face had lit up when he'd spotted Harry. Harry just hoped he wouldn't give the game away by blabbing about the photo shoot. Harry was hoping to put that off for as long as he could; until he was fifty, for preference.

"Well, Draco." Blaise's voice was soft as a cat's purr. His eyes flickered over Harry, who felt like he'd just had his soul proof-read.

"Blaise." Draco stretched out his hand. For a moment, Harry thought he was going to cover Harry's with it; but he seemed to change his mind half-way, and picked up his wine-glass instead.

"Hey, Harry!" Colin bounced up. "This place is fab, isn't it? I nearly lost my salad to the candle, though. You'd think I'd have learned after all those years at Hogwarts with the floating candles!" He gave a shrill laugh.

"Um," said Harry diplomatically. He strained to hear what Blaise and Draco were talking about, but there seemed to be a lot of meaningful looks and throat-clearing going on and not much verbal communication at all.

"Are you ready, Colin?" asked Blaise. To the surprise of almost everyone in the vicinity, he put his hand on the small of Colin's back in a distinctly proprietorial way. Harry somehow doubted that anyone had ever before tried to lay claim to Colin.

"I'm glad you're finally happy, Draco," added Blaise cryptically. He swirled his robes and walked away.

As he and Colin neared the door, Harry was sure that he saw Blaise lift Colin's hand to his lips and kiss it, to Colin's confusion but, also, obvious delight.

"Well." Draco slumped in his chair.

"Er. Chocolate?" Harry offered.

Draco didn't seem to heed him, staring vacantly into space. Harry silently wished that he'd find something worth looking at there, because Harry obviously did not fit the bill. This was even more painful in light of the fact that Harry would have been quite happy to sit and look at Draco for the rest of his life. Not looking at him -- turning his gaze to something else -- provoked a feeling in the back of his throat that he remembered from the aftermath of crying, on the few occasions that he had.

On the other hand, the chocolate cake was very good: just the right blend of creamy and spongey. There was also hot butterscotch sauce. As chocolate and sex-substitutes went, it came in right there at the very top.

Harry was soon scoffing with gusto, pausing only to wipe off the more obvious chocolate smears. He wondered if this was the sort of place where you could clean off the plate with your finger, and regretfully decided that it was not.

When there were only some significant crumbs remaining, Harry looked up from the devastation of his gluttony and into Draco's eyes, which were gleaming with an avaricious light.

Feeling full, Harry wordlessly passed over his fork, assuming that Draco did, after all, want a taste. Draco raised his eyebrows, looking slightly flummoxed for a moment. Then he laid the fork aside and ran his fingertip along the perimeter of the plate, dragging up a load of butterscotch sauce and crumbs that he dribbled into his mouth.

After a few seconds, Harry remembered to close his.

His expression set, Draco reached across the table to thumb the side of Harry's mouth, lingering over the curve of his lower lip.

"Blaise isn't here," Harry reminded him, trying not to shiver at the touch.

"Oh, yeah," said Draco, and withdrew his hand.

* * *

Ron looked at Hermione, and knew that she was remembering the details, as told to them by Harry and gleefully augmented by Draco. Ron and Hermione both later admitted to a somewhat licentious desire to hear all about what the two boys got up to, it being so removed from their own experiences.

This was not, however, something suitable for a general audience, or even one with grandparental supervision.

"So." Tai broke the lingering silence. "Harry and Draco went to dinner, and Blaise didn't seem jealous?"

"That's right," confirmed Ron. "However, it did show Harry that he didn't want Draco to get back together with Blaise. And Draco was starting to realise that he'd rather have someone else, after all."

"Phew." Sally blew out her cheeks. "I had no idea theirs was such a wild story!"

Ron compressed his trembling lips. "You have no idea."

"And she never will," muttered Hermione, but Ron could tell that in her mind, she was smirking.

* * *

When Draco turned up a few days after their first date, Harry expected that it was either to arrange another attempt or to bawl him out for the failure of the first. In fact, Draco did neither, only prowled around the flat, picking up ornaments with an air that suggested that he was looking for price tags. Given that Harry's collection of ornaments was on the poverty-stricken side of sparse, and that they had all previously belonged without exception to either Ginny or Hermione, this did not take long.

Harry, who'd planned to spend the day catching up on the bar accounts, was dressed in his oldest and grubbiest t-shirt and a pair of jeans that were no better than they should be. He sat on the sofa, holding a mug of tea between his trembling knees and feeling desperately self-conscious. Really, he'd never looked worse, even when he was covered in blood or Bubotuber pus or other people's insides.

At last he could bear the growing tension no longer, and all but shouted, "What do you want, Draco?"

Draco spoke too fast, brushing his hair out of his face and refusing to look at Harry. As such, Harry couldn't even lipread; what he did hear sounded like "Wobbleproctorhex."

"What?" Harry shook his head. "Did you say you've found a new hex?"

Draco lifted his head, his eyes blazing and his chin defiant. " _No._ I said --" he hesitated "-- I said that we'd better practice ? sex."

Harry felt a nervous giggle bubble up his throat. "What, like, forty times a day? Repeating it over and over until ?" He felt his eyes glaze over from the innuendo. Although, given that this was exactly what Draco _was_ implying, it was more like outnuendo.

"Something like that," muttered Draco. "Blaise didn't seem that jealous, so I thought if he caught us _in flagrante delicto_?"

"What's this about flamingos?"

"In the act, Potter!" snapped Draco. " _In flagrante delicto_ means ? well, in this case it would mean Blaise walking in when I have my cock up your arse."

"You what?" To his horror, Harry could feel heat pooling in his lap at the image. He stifled an gasp.

"I don't know how we'd arrange it," Draco was saying, raking his hands through his hair. "Could hardly expect Granger to organise for Blaise to ?" He stopped abruptly, his eyes flying to Harry's crotch. "Harry, do you have --"

"No," said Harry frantically, scrabbling for a pillow or a blanket, or _anything_ to hide his shame.

"I thought Gryffindors weren't supposed to lie." Draco's eyes hadn't moved from the tightening bulge in Harry's jeans, and his tongue emerged to flick over his lips. Harry didn't even want to think what Draco's expression implied. Harry's more primal impulses were already running a frightening number of suggestions through his brain, and none of them involved clothes.

With glacial slowness, Draco moved to sit beside Harry on the sofa. Harry moaned and tried to writhe away, but the part of him that was usurping control of his higher centres wanted to press closer, as close as it could get, to Draco. Or, indeed, anything that could grant it the release it so desperately craved.

"It's okay," murmured Draco, right in Harry's ear. He smoothed the hair back from Harry's fevered brow, and dropped a line of kisses down to his jawbone. "You want this, don't you?"

His hand slipped under Harry's t-shirt, caressing the line of his sternum with teasing delicacy. Each of his fingertips launched a thousand pulsations down to the burning tower of Harry's cock. Harry hadn't thought it was possible to get any harder, but his zipper was actually causing him intense pain. He bucked upwards, biting his lip so hard he almost drew blood.

"Tell me." Draco's voice was an urgent vibration against his skin. "I won't do it if you don't want --"

"I want!" growled Harry, squeezing his eyes shut. "Just bloody -- hurry up!"

Draco's hand relaxed against his skin, making Harry's eyes roll back as his little finger slipped under his waistband. Harry felt Draco's laughter in his hypodermis. "Patience is a virtue. And we all know that Gryffindors are the epitome of virtue." His hand moved to play with Harry's zipper, dragging it down the tiniest amount and allowing Harry to yearn for the freedom Draco could grant.

Words were an effort. Hell, coherent thought was almost beyond him; but Harry tried. "Not ? virtuous," he managed, ripping down his zipper with his own hand.

"Well, well. Look at that." Draco's other hand had crept up behind Harry's back to cradle his head. He was now stroking the side of Harry's neck. It tickled in a grown-up way. "The Boy Wonder goes commando."

Harry could have said that it was far from a regular habit, or that he hadn't been expecting visitors of any sort today, much less those bearing sexual favours. However, all voluntary cogitation was cut when Draco peeled back the already-damp material of Harry's jeans, allowing his erection to spring free.

Draco pushed up his t-shirt, tucking it under Harry's sweating armpits. "Nice," he approved. "Fuck, Potter, it almost reaches your bellybutton."

"Harry," Harry pleaded, trying to arch upwards to Draco's hand.

"Now, Harry," the name slipped out, smooth as a fish, easy as blinking, "control yourself." With that, Draco brought his hand all the way up to Harry's shoulder, pushing him back against the cushions. Harry almost sobbed with need, and moved his own hand down; quick as a flash, Draco had it pinned against the arm of the sofa.

"What did I tell you about patience?" he scolded. Harry would have hit him if he didn't want him to touch his penis so badly.

Then Draco was kissing him, slowly and wetly, his tongue sliding in and out with almost obscene agility. His chest heaved against Harry's, and Harry almost forgot the throbbing between his legs as he surrendered to Draco's mouth.

Draco had not forgotten, however. Taking a last swipe at Harry's palate, he dropped off the sofa altogether, genuflecting between Harry's knees. He smirked up at Harry, his mouth glistening like a fresh fruit.

Harry realised what he was going to do a millisecond before he did it, and he had just time to say "Oh my _god_ " before Draco tensed the muscles in his neck and engulfed the head of Harry's cock in his mouth.

Harry twisted the sofa cushions between his fingers so hard his skin went white. Draco was tugging his jeans down his legs, stroking the cleft made by the adductors in his thigh. Harry threw his head back, releasing a garbled string of inarticulate encouragement. Draco pushed Harry's legs further apart, so that he was stretched out across his sofa, more exposed than he'd ever been in his life. Draco slipped his hand underneath Harry's balls, fondling them with surprising agility given that his mouth was tonsil-deep in Harry's cock.

Harry felt something tighten in his belly, but before he could even think about coming, Draco had moved back, taking his sinful fingers with him.

"Harry." His voice was loud and clear enough to break through Harry's iron-clad fog of arousal. "Harry, I want you to watch me."

"Okay," said Harry shakily. He would have agreed to just about anything right then. He had to admit, though, that keeping his eyes on Draco's mouth did things to his brain that made it curl up in delight and want to never let him go.

Draco pursed his lips, blowing on the damp skin of Harry's shaft. Such a little thing, but it made Harry's hips leave the sofa and wrung a cry from his throat. Obviously pleased, Draco wriggled his fingers up and under Harry's balls once more, and slid his lips over Harry's cock.

Harry fought to keep his eyes open; it was far too much cerebral effort in the face of Draco's wickedly talented mouth. Draco began to make little moans of enjoyment, which translated as almost unbearable vibrations against Harry's tender skin. A moment after, his questing fingers found a spot behind Harry's balls that caused his vision to fade to grey. Then he was coming, in long, hot pulses ? down Draco's throat.

He was coming down Draco's throat, and Draco was _swallowing,_ and it was all just a bit too much for Harry. He couldn't help himself. He closed his eyes.

When he woke, he was wrapped in a blanket. His dreams had been formless and aching, so when he awoke his first memories seemed to be nothing more than dream fragments. Then he realised that his jeans were tossed on the floor, and that there was a torn piece of parchment lying beside his head.

It said: "I'll be in touch."

* * *

There had been a pause while Hermione and Sally collaborated to pass out the cocoa. Ron thought about his best friend. He had never become entirely comfortable with what Harry and Draco did to each other. All the same, it was like an itch he had to scratch; he often found himself asking Harry what exactly this or that felt like.

And, of course, during that stormy patch when it seemed that Harry and Draco's latest fight would never be reconciled, Ron had found out for himself what this and that felt like.

He glanced at his wife, her grey hair glinting in the firelight as she helped little Thomas hold his mug to his lips. They had had over sixty years together, more better than worse.

Some things didn't need to be shared.

Tai sculled his cocoa with a fine disregard for future indigestion. Before Ron had even cooled his, Tai's blonde head was resting against Ron's knee and he was gazing up with a winning expression.

"So, where were we?" asked Ron.

"We'd just got up to where Blaise didn't seem to be affected by Harry going out with Draco," Tai supplied. "What happened next?"

"Ah, that would be the birth." Ron grinned.

"The birth?" Tai looked genuinely shocked. "They had a _baby_?"

Ron chuckled. "Oh, no. Harry and Draco didn't. But someone else did ?"

* * *

"You look pale, Harry. Have you been eating well?" Hermione fussed around Harry's kitchen, exclaiming at the lack of fresh cheese and yoghurt. "I worry about you. You should get a cook. Goodness knows you can afford one."

Harry nodded along gamely; however, he wasn't listening. He still felt shell-shocked. To go from being on the receiving end of the best blow-job of his -- or indeed anyone's -- life to listening to Hermione's domestic babble was too much to ask.

"-- Draco," said Hermione. Harry perked up.

"What was that?"

Hermione looked caught between amusment and disapproval. "I thought that would get your attention. Are you all right?"

"All right?" Harry managed. He felt amazing. He felt like nothing else in the world. He felt like explaining this to Hermione would be utterly impossible.

"Yes." Hermione's eyes searched his face. "I thought it would be good for you, to see what life was like on the other side of the track ? but I don't want you to get hurt."

Harry smiled. "I haven't got hurt."

"Yet," muttered Hermione. "No, you've just fallen in love, that's plain."

"What?" Harry jumped as if stung into rude awakening. "I'm not in love with D -- _Malfoy_! He's a -- git!"

"Indeed," observed Hermione in neutral tones. "That's never stopped people in the past, though. Why should it stop you?"

"I can't believe you're _condoning_ this -- hypothetical! -- love affair."

Hermione shrugged. "You think you don't have hundreds of bad points too, Harry? Everyone does. Draco is just a little more ready to announce them to the world." She cupped his cheek for a moment. "At least you're not deluding yourself as to his faults."

Harry snorted. "Hardly. But it makes no difference. I _don't_ love him."

"So if you never saw him again -- if he decided to terminate this arrangement you two have going tomorrow -- you'd be entirely unaffected?"

Harry's heart gave a great leap of pain; for a moment, he was unable to speak.

Hermione nodded. "Thought so. Harry. Listen to me. I don't think that Draco's your soul mate or anything. But you've always been far too interested in each other's doings for people who dislike each other entirely. If you _really_ hated him, you would have kept away from him in school -- but you spent the whole of sixth year practically stalking him, do you remember?"

Harry rarely forgot. "And your point?"

"Go with it." Hermione smiled. "I like seeing you happy."

Harry remembered, with a jolt, that that was what Blaise had said to Draco. About Harry.

"Bring him to Molly and Arthur's anniversary dinner," added Hermione. "If he's going to be hanging around, you'll need to introduce him. You might as well give him a baptism of fire. After all --" she gave him the ghost of a wink "-- he deserves it."

"All right," Harry called after her, as she waddled to the fire. "But I don't love him!"

"I don't," he muttered, when she was gone. And went to smell Draco's robes, which were hidden in the back of his wardrobe.

* * *

Draco met Harry in the Hippogriff's Head at ten o'clock in the morning. The pub was closed at that time, and thrummed with the compressed potentiality that all empty pubs possessed.

Draco was always conscious of his appearance, but today he'd pushed the envelope even further, aiming for his absolute best. The theory was that he was going to shock the poor, unfashionable Weasleys into awed silence. The reality was ? somewhat different, and had a lot to do with what Harry thought of him, but Draco didn't choose to acknowledge it.

If he was honest -- something which he avoided being at all costs -- he'd long since stopped thinking of Blaise. Thinking of him, that was, in the way that one lover thought about the person who was their whole world.

Once, Harry had filled up Draco's world because Draco despised him. This had never really changed in intensity, merely in character.

However, Draco shied away from epiphanies; he felt they caused premature wrinkles. Instead, he focused on his attire, which was altogether the safer mental option.

Draco had chosen deep red robes with silver embroidery on the collar, completed by a snug filigreed belt about his waist. He'd brushed and charmed his hair until it reflected light into an almost blinding corona, and he was sneering almost without pause to cover his knee-trembling nervousness.

When Draco had arrived, Harry was still in the no man's land between 'walking dead' and 'presentably dressed.' He'd made a vague 'fire at will' gesture towards the well-stocked bar and stumbled back upstairs.

Draco had a margarita to calm his nerves, and another in case the first got lost on the way down. He could see his reflection in the bar mirror and there was a little piece of hair sticking out above his ear. No matter how much spit he daubed on it or spells he doused it with, it persisted at pursing a ninety-degree angle from his head. In another minute he was going to curse it off.

The door opened.

Harry emerged, still sleepy and tugging down his cuffs. He looked only wonderful. His hair had been teased from its usual haystack into loose curls. Despite the utilitanarism of the colour, the deep green robes suited him, and their impeccable cut brought out the best in his slight frame.

In fact, the only thing that could have improved his appearance would have been Draco tearing _off_ his robes and having him right there on the bar --

"Sorry for keeping you waiting so long." Harry stifled a yawn. "I overslept. I'd forgotten that three hen parties had booked the function room for last night. I thought they were going to take up permanent residence here, the way they were carrying on."

"Mmm," said Draco, to disguise the fact that his vocal chords had been hijacked by a part of his brain that wanted to babble at great length about _just_ how good Harry looked. How good he'd always looked, and that was something Draco didn't want to face up to right now. He diverted all his energy to stifling his own larynx.

Harry bent down and retrived something from under the bar; it was a gift, clumsily wrapped in shiny silver paper. "Anniversary present," he explained, to Draco's inquiring look. "Listen, Ginny's friends with Colin. I'm sure she'll tell him all about ? us. Being together. And he'll tell Blaise, and, well. You know."

"Sure," Draco managed.

Harry looked like he wanted to say something more, but he chose instead to bite his lips and run his hand through his artfully tousled hair. There could have been few gestures more calculated to set Draco's pulse racing, what with the rippling shift in the fold of Harry's robes ? and Harry didn't have a clue.

"We'd better be going, then." Harry took down a jar of Floo powder and lit the fire with a rather savage swipe of his wand. A moment later, he yelled, "The Burrow!"

Draco took a deep breath and followed.

* * *

"-- you're bringing _who_?" a loud voice was asking when Draco stepped from the fire. He flicked ash off his sleeve and raised his eyes to what looked like a European convocation of Weasleys.

"Draco Malfoy." Harry's voice was half-obscured by his embarrassed cough. "Draco, this is um. The Weasleys. You've, ah, met Ron."

"That's for sure." Ron's face was grim, and his arms were crossed so tightly across his chest it was a wonder that he didn't impede the blood flow to his brain. If, indeed, he had a brain, Draco reminded himself. "Have you gone completely bonkers, Harry?"

"There you are!" Hermione cried, emerging from a doorway with some difficulty. She reached across her belly and hugged Harry. "Hello, Draco." Her voice was only about two degrees cooler than normal, but the net positive gain was negated by the temperature drop in the room as a whole.

Draco let his gaze drift. There were the twins, who'd only escaped a life of petty crime by some miracle. The smarmy one in glasses, who'd been Head Boy when Draco was a kid. The fiesty little girl, who wasn't so little any more, with Oliver Wood's arm around her shoulders and a glare on her face that could have curdled milk. Draco had to repress a shudder -- not at her expression; he had grown immune to that sort of thing when he was three -- but at the memory of his twelve-year-old crush on Oliver. He'd even sent him a Valentine, for crying out loud.

And Arthur Weasley, whose face was pale and whose missing arm seemed to suck at Draco's eyes like the Dark Mark of old. That had been his father's personal souvenir, Arthur Weasley's arm; he'd paraded it around along with other grisly memoirs of his victims before bearing them off to the Dark Lord. That had been just before Draco started seventh year. The war didn't last long after that. It was the reason why the limb couldn't be reattached by magic; it had rotted away to dust long before it could be returned to its rightful owner.

A stout woman whom Draco vaguely recalled from Platform Nine and Three Quarters was standing behind her husband, her hand gripping his shoulder hard enough to leave bruises.

"Um," said Hermione. Harry was looking at her with a furious expression.

Draco felt that the time had come to clear up a few issues. Underneath his robes, he locked his knees together to stop the shaking from migrating to his upper body.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"What was that, Malfoy?" snarled Ron. Ginny narrowed her eyes to slits, and the smarmy one had taken off his glasses to polish them before leaning forward with squirrelly eagerness.

"I said I'm sorry. I'm sorry my father cursed your arm off, Mr Weasley. I'm sorry I mocked you about your weight problems, Mrs Weasley. I'm sorry for _all_ the insults, Ron. I'm sorry I laughed at you behind your back, um --" Draco waved at the bespectacled Weasley. "I'm sorry my father gave you a cursed diary, Ginny. I'm very sorry I ever bought any of your products --" Here a wave to the twins. He glanced at a shockingly sexy Weasley with an earring and rather intriguing facial scars. _Oh_. "I'm sorry Fenrir attacked you ? Bill?" Beside him was another scarred one, only these were shiny burn marks on his arms. "I don't believe I've ever met you, but I'm sure I've wronged you by proxy, so I hereby apologise."

The one with burned arms raised a gingery eyebrow. "Sorry's just a word," he said

The rest of the family seemed too stunned to respond, unless the look of bemused stupid was simply an inherited trait.

Draco shrugged. "So's love. And honour. And duty. And courage. All those other things your lot rate so much. Words have as much value as you care to give them. For my part, I mean it. It's not my problem if you don't believe me."

The funny thing was, he was telling the truth. And, despite the tangible disbelief in the room, he felt ? free.

There was a long silence. Draco felt a shift in air behind him, carrying with it a faint scent of lemon. He turned his head slightly, spotting Harry's profile in the corner of his eye.

Arthur Weasley was the first to speak. His voice trembled a little. "Well. You're new to our circle, so I think some introductions are in order."

"Thanks." Draco smiled at him, turning on full-wattage charm. Arthur blinked.

"Hang on, wait." Ginny stood up. Oliver's hand dropped to cup her arse, but she slapped it away as one would a persistent fly. Oliver just grinned. "Harry, does this mean you're _gay_?" She shook her head. "God, if only you'd said as much before, I'd have saved myself a hell of a lot of trouble."

In the insuing welter of heated exclamations, yelled catcalls and Arthur vainly attempting to put names to everyone, Draco never did hear Harry's reply.

* * *

Harry had been placed across from Draco at the table. At first, he'd thought that this was a good thing, as it severely reduced the chances of anyone thinking that they were fooling around together under the table. Harry wasn't sure if he actually had anything against fooling around under the table or not, but it was easier all round if the question never came up.

That was before Draco started playing footsie with him. And Draco had very long legs.

Harry sat up poker-straight in his chair, the blush blooming in his cheeks distracting most of his attention away from the delicious food. The rest of his attention was divided between the throbbing of his erection and answering Ron's avid questions.

"Hermione filled me in a bit." Ron was chewing loudly on a chicken bone. "But I still don't get it. You're not actually going out with that g -- with _him_ , are you?"

Harry was aware that the whole table stopped to listen in to his answer; all except Draco, who leaned back to ask Molly nonchalantly if there was any more of 'that utterly fabulous chasseur sauce left.'

"It's complicated," muttered Harry. "Gravy?"

Ron laughed. "What did I expect? Things with you have never been simple, have they?" He eyed Draco in a speculative way that made Harry add a new emotion to the bubbling cauldron -- jealousy. Acrid, raging jealousy. And all Ron made out of it was, "I'm surprised I didn't realise before. He's a real pretty boy, isn't it?"

If even Ron could see that, Harry thought in despair, what must real gay men think? He didn't stand a chance.

Things got even worse during the seven-dish dessert. One of which was chocolate coated cherries.

Draco's eyes never left Harry's as he sucked a cherry between his lips, making love to the fruit with his mouth. Scraping the stalk clean with his teeth was a long progression, the speed of which would have been outstripped by a one-eyed tortoise. He licked his fingers clean with excruciating slowness. And then repeated the process.

Five times.

Harry was about to explode from unabated lust when Arthur stood up, raising his silver wineglass. He looked at his wife with such obvious devotion that Harry felt his eyes prickle. "To my wonderful Molly," he began, "my words can't begin to express how much I --"

Hermione screamed.

"Hermione!" said at least five voices at once. Ron, who was closest, tipped over the jug of pumpkin juice in his haste to comfort his wife.

"My waters have broken," she gasped.

Molly dropped a kiss on her husband's head and dashed to Hermione's other side. Fleur began fluttering nearby, and the twins' wives offered Hermione something to drink and brushed back her hair, respectively. Ginny ran to the newly-installed telephone on the wall, screeching something about Hermione's parents.

All the Weasley men shared knowing looks, except for Ron, who was wincing nearly harder than his wife.

Harry felt a jolt of excitement, and couldn't help sharing a silly grin with Bill. All of the Weasley grandchildren were holed up for the night; Harry wondered if they should wake Louisa and tell her that her new sibling was on the way.

"Excuse me." Draco's plaintive voice broke the silence. "Could someone please tell me what's going on?"

"She's having a baby," laughed Harry.

"We're going to St Mungo's now," called Molly. "Everyone who wants to come, gather round the Portkey!"

Harry moved automatically to the empty jug Molly was holding. Something made him look back.

The other Weasleys had started to clear up the table; Fred was eyeing a fork with a familiar mad inventor light in his eye. And Draco was sunk into his chair, looking half-way between sulking and cursing something into tiny pieces.

Harry held out his hand. "You coming?"

For a long minute, Draco just stared. Then --

"Okay."

Being pressed up against Draco reawakened every urge that Hermione's imminent delivery had briefly suppressed, and squared it. Somehow, during the maelstrom, Draco managed to whisper in his ear.

"But only to oblige _you_ , of course."

* * *

Hermione had been wheeled away into the maternity unit, accompanied by Molly and a harried-looking Ron. An hour later, the Grangers had arrived and gone the same way, Mr Granger looking distinctly ill. Then there was just Ginny, Harry and Draco in the waiting room, all of them staring at a man in a Muggle suit with a duck on his head. He hadn't seemed to realise it yet, and was calmly reading a newspaper.

"I'm getting coffee." Ginny sprang out of her chair. "You want some?" Both Harry and Draco shook their heads, and she strode off, her scarlet hair bouncing behind her.

"What now?"

Harry studied Draco under his lashes. Draco sat in the hard plastic chair as if it was a throne, with his arm thrown back artistically. However, Harry noticed that a little bit of his hair was sticking up behind his ear. It made him look slightly foolish, and more human. It made Harry want to tug it.

"We wait. And wait." He grinned. "The last time, I was here for seven hours."

"Good grief. You really are a good friend." Draco sounded as if he had previously doubted the fact.

Harry wrinkled his forehead. "Yeah, I guess. But it's exciting."

"Ever hankered for one of your own?" Draco's voice was lazy, but his posture had crystallized somehow. "Yourself writ small? Someone to cling to your legs and call you Daddy?"

"I've never really thought about it," confessed Harry. "I don't think I'd mind, but ?" He shrugged. "I'm not bothered."

Draco smiled, that slow uncurling that made Harry feel weak. "Do you want to take a walk? I feel a bit stiff."

"Me too." Harry jumped to his feet, although he wasn't stiff in the slightest. Except in certain areas that made him fervently grateful for the invention of full, loose robes. An hour of sitting on hot coals, trying and failing not to look at Draco, would do that to a man.

They strolled down the pale green hallways -- all of which contrived to smell of eau de formaldehyde -- not talking. The silence would have been a comfortable one, had it not been for the hot sparks that Harry felt against his skin every time he so much as breathed in Draco's direction.

They came upon a small glowing stick man, and Draco inclined his head. Harry followed him inside the toilets, not because he felt any call of nature, but because he felt the call of Draco. And, for better or worse, he was going to follow that call wherever it lead.

Not far, as it turned out. Draco leaned in close to the small, rust-speckled mirror and started to examine his forehead minutely.

"What are you looking for?" asked Harry.

"Spots." After a minute, Draco ceased and tilted against the sinks, pushing out the toe of his shoe so that it just nudged against Harry's foot.

Harry tried to speak, and failed miserably.

"So." Draco perched on the edge of the sink, contriving to bring himself closer to Harry. "This has been an interesting night. I went to a house full of Weasleys and didn't die ?"

"They would never --" Harry protested, but Draco stopped him with a warm hand across his mouth. Harry bit his tongue in an effort to keep it in his mouth, and in the process gave up talking for the foreseeable future.

"And I get to watch another one come into the world." Draco cocked his head. "Well, in a manner of speaking. I don't think I'd actually care to observe the whole ? process. Once they've suitably cleaned the infant, I think I could be prevailed upon it to make the right sort of admiring noises."

Harry had to smile under Draco's hand, which was still in place. No -- it was moving, grazing Harry's cheek until his fingers hooked under Harry's ears, drawing him close.

"Someone will see," gasped Harry.

Draco smirked. "Yes. Me." And his mouth brushed Harry's in the coolest, lightest of chaste pecks.

Harry stumbled forward, pushing Draco into the sink, his aching mouth seeking. Draco managed to skitter away long enough to repeat, in squeaky tones, "But, Harry, someone will see!"

"Shut up," Harry ground out, into Draco's mouth. The kiss was all teeth and thrusting tongues, and Harry was sure that Draco was laughing under it, but he didn't care. With his weight in the sink, Draco wrapped his legs around Harry; his fingers pinched out an acciacctura on Harry's thoracic vertebrae.

"You." Harry curved roughly against Draco, dying to drive his cock straight through him. Draco's hands on his shoulders dragged him closer by handfuls of cloth; his mouth was eager and his legs tight on Harry's waist. In seconds it was over. Harry soaked his under-robes and sank against Draco.

"If I were keeping score," whispered Draco, through Harry's rosy haze, "I would say that you owe me one. Two, in fact."

"Oh." Harry felt a jolt of guilt-soaked panic. "Do you want me to -- do what you did?"

"God, no. Not, at least, until I've taught you how." Draco tugged Harry's chin forward, his tongue sneaking out to lap at Harry's lower lip like a kitten. His stubble was invisible and sandpaper-rough against Harry's skin; Harry growled and broke away, to rub his face against Draco's. Draco sighed in pleasure.

"What, then?" Harry breathed in his ear, too ashamed of his juvenile blush to look him in the eye. "Not my mouth?"

"Let hands do what lips do." Draco took Harry's hand and guided it under his robes, which had ridden above his knees. "Yesss. Like that." Harry glided his knuckles over the soft skin of Draco's inner thigh, and Draco scrabbled to spread them wider without falling off the sink. "Oh, yes. _Don't_ stop."

"I won't, I promise," whispered Harry.

Both of Draco's hands came back up around Harry's back, holding him close. Draco rested his head in the crook of Harry's neck; Harry blew kisses along his hairline the hand beneath his robes inched higher, shaking slightly.

Harry couldn't see what he was doing, but he'd wanked in the dark often enough to know his way by touch. It wasn't much different from stroking himself, except that Draco's little hitches of breath, which came more and more rapidly, were not his own.

Harry fastened his lips around Draco's earlobe and wrapped his fingers around the base of Draco's cock. He could feel Draco's heart beating against his chest. Up, down, up, he slid his fingers, his thumb flicking across the head to soak up the droplets of moisture that were gathering there. He squeezed lightly, causing Draco's hips to cant upwards. Down again, and he broke away for a moment to roll Draco's heavy, hot balls between his fingers. Draco made a choking sound in his ear.

One more languorous stroke and Draco was spurting over his fingers, his hips bucking wildly enough to almost wrench the sink away from the wall. Harry held him through it; and when it was over, he slipped his hand out. It was covered in pearly secretions. Harry regarded it in some confusion.

Draco saw him. "Oh, honestly," he sighed, his voice hoarse. With his legs sprawled across a sink and his robes bundled around his waist, he took Harry's hand and tapped it with his wand, reciting " _Evanesco_!" as primly as Madame Pomfrey.

The sound of approaching footsteps made them stumble into some semblance of non-sexual stances. Harry's legs trembled under him, and Draco was not much better; his robes had fallen back down, but he leaned against the wall for support, his eyes languid.

The door burst open in a shower of sparks. A tubby young man with his hair on end danced inside, twirling his wand so that blue daisies fell everywhere. Draco made a face.

"It's a boy!" he yelled, grabbing Draco by the shoulders and yanking him into a monster hug. Over the man's shoulder, Harry saw Draco's eyes widen in horror, and stifled a laugh.

"It's a boy!" the man repeated. He released Draco, who collapsed back against the sink. "A _boy_!" he told Harry again, as if people in Timbuktu were not fully appraised of current events.

"Yes, it is," agreed Harry. He pulled Draco into his arms and kissed him, savouring his wide eyes. "A boy."

* * *

"The end," said Ron.

A profound silence greeted his words. It continued for several minutes, as Ron sipped his cold cocoa to soothe his parched throat.

"Is that when I --" Sally made a sweeping gesture with her hands, which probably did mean 'uterus' in the language of interpretive dance. "I mean, when Frank and I --"

Hermione nodded. "Just for interest's sake, that man in the toilets -- who outed Harry and Draco -- well, his son is now the Minister for Magic."

"Good lord," said Sally. "I never realised you lot had such interesting lives!"

"An affliction of the young," said Hermione drily.

"I think it's time for bed," said Sally. "It was past your bed time two hours ago, squirts."

A chorus of dissent arose at her words. Under its cover, Tai crawled to Ron and propped his head on his knee. Although his eyelids were drooping, his eyes were bright and troubled.

"What's on your mind, Tai?" asked Ron quietly.

"Me," replied Tai, pushing his straight blonde hair out of his eyes. "I mean, how -- my mother --?"

Ron's eyes were sad. He remembered all too well that sorry period in Harry and Draco's history, when Draco had got a Muggle girl pregnant. She'd died giving birth to Tai's mother. No one knew what really happened to Lila; she'd disappeared over twenty years ago. By the time Harry had become reconciled Draco's betrayal, it was too late to take her in. Then, nine Christmases ago, she'd turned up, frozen, dying, pregnant, on Ron and Hermione's doorstep -- the one place she'd briefly been able to call home.

"That's a story for another day," he said. "And one that's not mine to tell."

"Okay." Tai sounded unhappy, and the eyes he fixed on the glittering Christmas tree were a little too shiny. However, he gathered himself together enough to wake Elaine, who was nodding on the hearth.

"Time for bed," Ron heard him say to her, with more gentleness than he showed to anyone else.

"Is it?" Elaine rubbed her eyes, hiding the look of blissful adoration she always wore when Tai was near.

There was a blast of gelid air, followed by an imperious voice demanding, "Who decided to put ice on your Apparating Port, hmm? The last thing I need is to break a hip, Ron Weasley. I'm far too old and ugly for Skele-Gro."

"Draco! You've arrived!" Hermione cried in delight.

Draco stomped through to the living room, shaking snow off his cloak and tapping the floor with his walking stick loud enough to wake the dead. _If only,_ Ron thought with a sigh.

"Of course I arrived, woman," snapped Draco. "Aren't eighty years long enough to convince you that I keep my promises? My appointments just ran a bit over, that's all."

"Grandad!" Tai cried. He ran to Draco, wrapping his skinny arms around Draco's waist. Draco didn't peel him off as he would any of the other children; instead, for a moment, he laid a light hand on Tai's hair.

"Shouldn't you be in bed, pipsqueak?" he asked. "Father Christmas won't come if you stay awake all night."

"We're just going," Tai promised, and dove in for another hug. Draco let him, looking both little uncomfortable, and greatly touched.

At last, the room was empty but for Ron, Hermione and Draco. As well as -- or so Ron liked to think, and he was sure the others did too -- the ghosts.

"We told them about you and Harry," said Ron.

"Well, some of it," added Hermione. "They are only children, after all."

Draco laughed. "That brings me back. Do you remember that photo spread Colin did?"

Ron grinned. " _Accio_ special photo album!"

A black-bound book zoomed out of a hidden cranny and fell open on Ron's lap, revealing a photograph of Harry. His skin was oiled, his face was puce, and he was wearing nothing but a scrap of leopard-skin. As Harry caught sight of Draco, leaning in to inspect the picture, he turned even redder and the leopard-skin grew tumescent. It seemed that a Harry caught forever in his twenties still recognised Draco, whose face was a road-map of wrinkles, and whose receding hair was white.

It was almost enough to make you believe in something more than this life.

"I never really liked that picture," said Draco softly. He turned the page. "This was my favourite."

It showed Harry, looking bashful and his usual untidy self, his arms wound around Draco's waist. Draco's pale face was supercilious, except for the rare moments when he'd look at Harry and his mouth would go soft around the edges. Much as it was doing now.

"It was risqué, for its time, that spread." Hermione took up her knitting again. Ron put the album in Draco's hands.

"I've been meaning to give it to you, actually," he said. "Consider it an early Christmas present."

"What, you mean you got me something _else_? You're slipping, Weasley."

But Draco's heart wasn't in the taunt. It was there in the photograph with Harry, as it would be for the rest of his life.

Ron didn't consider himself a genius or a great thinker. But once, when Harry and Draco had been sitting together, after they'd weathered the dark times, he'd seen Harry look at Draco and realised that Harry loved Draco as much as ever. He had even been prepared to believe that the reverse was true.

He looked away as Draco touched a hand to the corner of his eye.

Memories were slippery things to love. They were almost as inconstant as ghosts. But when they were all you had, Ron knew, you clung to them with every molecule of your body.

They sat by the fire, as the past stretched into the future, taking them with it.


End file.
